The Time to Make Up Your Mind About People (Is Never)
by nashtag
Summary: Oliver Queen and Felicity Smoak had a whirlwind Vegas romance—and a tornado of a divorce a year later. Two years after that, Oliver is about to marry his old flame, Laurel Lance. But when his father is caught cheating with another executive, he must let two journalists cover his wedding to preserve the family name. Philadelphia Story/Arrow AU, with a dash of Flash crossover.
1. Chapter 1

It was a rare sunny morning in Starling City, but the fight raging in the Queen apartment was better suited to a dark and stormy night. It ended, as the last couple of their fights had, with Felicity telling Oliver to get out. But this was the first time he actually took her up on the offer. As the door slammed behind him, Felicity knew two things: First, she would never forgive him for this. And second, she would never let him know how much it hurt.

* * *

TWO AND A HALF YEARS LATER

 **SOCIAL WORLD AWAITS WEDDING SATURDAY**  
Starling City society looks forward to the wedding Saturday of Ms. Laurel Lance, Starling City ADA, to Queen Consolidated Executive Vice President Oliver Queen. The Ceremony will take place at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Queen, the groom's parents.

The scratching of a pencil on paper and the testy tap of Ferragamos on tile greeted Oliver as he walked into the sunroom, where his mother was perched on the edge of a custom floral-print sofa. She looked up when she heard his approach, her foot stilling its motion. "Finally. Oliver, you really must pay more attention to gifts as they come in, rather than letting them pile up like this! What are you and Laurel thinking?"

Oliver crossed the room to kiss her cheek. "I'm sorry, mother." He looked around. "Wasn't Thea supposed to be helping you?"

As if his words had conjured her, his spirited little sister sauntered into the room. "Right here, Ollie, reporting for duty." She joined Moira on the couch, leaning her head on her mother's shoulder. "Although why Mom and I are stuck doing the dirty work for YOUR wedding is still an open question."

Oliver sighed as he sank into the armchair next to the sofa. "Speedy, you know Laurel has been swamped with a case, and with father . . . occupied in our New York offices, things haven't exactly been easy at Queen Consolidated."

Moira frowned. "Oliver, do we have to talk about this in front of Thea?"

Thea rolled her eyes. "Mom, I'm 19 years old. I know Dad isn't missing Oliver's wedding to see that 6-hour adaptation of Wolf Hall."

"Darling, being CEO of a company like Queen Consolidated is very demanding," began Moira, but her defense rang half-heartedly.

This time it was Oliver's turn to interrupt. "Mom. Thea's right. There's no need to pretend. I know how hard it is to face the facts squarely, and admit that your marriage isn't what it should be."

Moira sighed. "I suppose neither of us has had much success at this marriage business."

"We just picked the wrong people the first time around," said Oliver. If he felt a pang at the admission, it wasn't obvious. He'd come a long way in the last few years.

"Well, you wanted me to take a stand, and I've taken one," said Moira with a frown. "Your father isn't coming back. Probably wouldn't if I asked him, at this point."

Oliver leaned forward and placed a consoling hand on his mother's knee. "Let's forget about the past; we both deserve a little happiness now. And I for one intend to have it. With Laurel."

"I hope you can do just that, my beautiful boy." Moira said, resting her hand on his.

Thea broke the silence. "But I liked Felicity," she said, saying what was better left unsaid as usual even as she innocently butted her head against Moira's shoulder.

At the mention of that name, Oliver tensed. "Well, why don't you postpone the wedding then? Catch smallpox or something." Thea stuck her tongue out at him, and he mussed her hair as he stood. "I've got to go meet Laurel at the benefit. Thank you again for your help."

* * *

THURSDAY EVENING  
Starling City Country Club

Soft music wafted on a cool evening breeze as Oliver got out of the limo in front of the Starling City country club. He straightened his tie and strode into the banquet hall, where the low light glinted off champagne-filled glasses, scanning the crowd for a willowy brunette. He spied his fiancee talking to the mayor, wearing a fitted red dress that somehow managed to be both elegant and sexy. Laurel knew how to find the most important person in the room, and she also knew how to get noticed. Just one of the things that made her a good partner for a CEO.

"Oliver," she murmured as he approached, lifting her chin to give him a light kiss in greeting. "Mayor Blood and I were just talking about Queen Consolidated's generous donation to earthquake relief fund for The Glades."

"The least we could do," Oliver said. Even two years later, the earthquake wasn't something he liked to think about much, given that it had left his best friend dead, along with some 500 others. Laurel didn't seem to dwell on it much—but on the bright side, that meant she didn't push him to talk about it either.

"And of course I saw the story about your upcoming marriage in Star," said Mayor Blood.

Laurel smiled. "They snagged some paparazzi pics and I didn't even notice. I was a little bit flattered, but Oliver said some nasty things about the type of person who made that their career." She patted his arm.

"Call me old fashioned, but that seems like a sad sort of job for a grown man. I'm not interested in having someone with a camera coming into my home."

"Hey, we're getting married this weekend. Don't you mean our home?" asked Laurel.

Oliver pulled her snug against his side. "Yes, Laurel—most definitely our home."

* * *

THURSDAY EVENING  
Star City Magazine offices

It was 7pm and the halls of Star City Magazine were nearly empty. Which meant that Iris West's determined voice fairly echoed through them. "I'm not going do it, Barry. I'll tell Harrison Wells very plainly and simply: I'm a writer. I'm not a society snoop. I'm going to tell him just that."

"Just that," Barry agreed weakly, running a hand through his tousled brown hair.

"Let Wells fire me! I want to get back to investigative journalism anyway. That book about the Starling City quake wasn't the only piece of writing I had in me."

"Iris, you are the most talented writer I know, but the bills won't pay themselves," Barry pointed out, as they waved to Wells' receptionist. "Let's just see what Wells has to say." He pushed open the office door.

"Ah, Iris. Barry. Thank you for coming." Harrison Wells, publisher of America's hottest gossip magazine, kept an office that was a throwback to the good old days. The large wooden desk held stacks of paper, a bronze nameplate and piano lamp with a green shade, a razor-thin tablet on the leather desk blotter the only nod to modernity—unless you counted the state-of-the-art wheelchair he sat in behind it. He gestured to the two chairs across from the desk, and Iris and Barry sat down.

"Your assignment will be Star's most sensational achievement: Oliver Queen. Scion of the city's best-known businessman. College playboy turned CEO in training. Married on impulse and divorced in a rage. And always unapproachable by the press. 'The Unassailable Oliver Queen . . . Inside the Wedding of Starling City's Most Secretive Family.' Yes, I think we could sell some magazines with that cover line."

"Or 'What the Kitchen Maid Saw Through the Keyhole," scoffed Iris. "No way. That's not for me. Close quotes."

"Close job, close bank account," muttered Barry. Then, louder, "Listen, Wells, this is all well and good. But how are we going to get onto the Queen estate? It's not like they're going to invite a writer and photographer from Star into their home."

Iris turned to Barry. "Are you seriously considering this? It's degrading."

"So is an empty stomach," Barry pointed out, "and you know what my appetite is like." He turned to Wells. "How do we get in?"

A slow smile spread across Wells' face. "Ah." He pressed a buzzer on his phone. "Send her in."

The door opened to reveal a petite blonde, who nervously adjusted her glasses.

"I understand we understand each other," Wells said to her.

"Quite," she nodded, moving into the room and taking the remaining chair.

"Very well," said Wells. "Iris, Barry, I'd like to you to meet a friend of mine. Felicity worked for our digital magazine for a time, on a few high-level projects. She'll take you to the Queen estate and introduce you to the family as friends of Roy Harper, a manager that Queen set up in the company's New York City branch a couple of years back. Luckily for us, Roy is on a trek through Antarctica at the moment and can't be reached, so your cover story should be solid enough."

"So we're friends of Roy Harper, here for the society wedding of Oliver Jonas Queen," said Iris. "Ah, the power-hungry, privileged white American male." She turned to the woman. "How do you know Queen, anyway?"

The woman smiled slowly. "You might say we grew up together. In the most complicated manner possible. Like emo teens, especially the hormones . . . but I'll stop talking in 3, 2, 1."

"You might also say you were his first wife," said Barry. Hers wasn't a smile a photographer could forget—and the blush that ran up onto her cheeks as she counted wasn't forgettable, either. "Felicity Smoak Queen, isn't it?"

"I didn't change my name, but yes. How did you know?"

"Oh, I was taking photos of you as you left for your honeymoon," he replied. "A cruise, wasn't it? On The Queen's Gambit? I was sure you were going to smash my camera or demand the memory card, but instead you smiled. And then two hours later my computer's hard drive got wiped out by a virus, not 10 seconds after the photos had been downloaded to it and deleted from the card. Funny coincidence."

"Definitely a coincidence. Totally a coincidence," muttered Felicity.

Iris' eyes narrowed, and Barry cringed slightly. He knew that look: Iris was about to get ruthless. "So you're doing this because you want to get even with your ex-husband? That's cold," said Iris.

Felicity swept an icy glance over Iris before saying, "I'll meet you here at 10 am tomorrow to go to the Queen estate. Don't be late."

As the door slammed behind her, Barry turned to Iris and handed her his handkerchief. "Here, Iris. You've got a little spit in your eye. It shows."

* * *

FRIDAY MORNING  
Queen Mansion

Felicity strode up to the wide front steps of the Queen estate, Barry and Iris trailing behind her. The large front door was framed by twin white pillars, pristine against the perfectly weathered brick and mirroring the columns that held up the front portico. She heard the click of the camera as Barry stopped to snap a quick photo, and it made her jump, ponytail skimming her shoulders along the thin strap of her pink summer dress.

Realizing she was a little too on edge for this, but not wanting to show it, she paused for the briefest of moments to straighten her shoulders and let out a deep breath before knocking on the door. There was nothing weird about showing up on your ex's doorstep the day before his wedding, right? Nope. Nothing at all.

One of the large double doors opened silently—it looked like the sort of door that was heavy enough to creak, but of course nothing was anything less than well oiled chez Queen—and a middle-aged woman appeared. "Why, Miss Felicity!" she said, in a pronounced Russian accent. "What in the world," she wondered, even as she held her arms out to hug Felicity.

"Hello, Raisa. It's been too long." Felicity sank into Raisa's comforting embrace, inhaling the familiar scent of blinis mixed with the Cuir de Russie that Oliver gave her each Christmas. Raisa always chided him for his extravagance, but she used it daily anyway.

"Oh Miss Felicity, you must know, Mr. Oliver is getting married tomorrow," Raisa began as they broke apart.

"I know, that's why I'm here." Raisa frowned, confused, and Felicity continued, "Well, not why I'm here, exactly, it's not like I'm here to be the person with an objection or anything! It's just why I'm bringing them here, you know," and she gestured to Iris and Barry. "Because of the wedding."

Raisa's raised eyebrows said it all.

"They're friends of Roy's," said Felicity, finally coming up with an answer that would smooth some of the worry out of the other woman's face. "Don't worry, Raisa, I'll explain to the family—are they out at the swimming pool? I can find my way. Can you show Iris and Barry in to the south parlor?"

Raisa nodded and clasped Felicity's hand warmly. "It was a pleasure to see you, Miss Felicity."

Felicity blinked away the mist that briefly covered her blue eyes as she replied. "Ditto, Raisa. Take care." She walked off, leaving Barry and Iris to Raisa's capable hands.

As she crossed the green lawn toward the pool, she heard voices coming from the west parlor, off the back patio. She followed the sounds. Thea's trilling laugh came first, followed by Moira's sharp tones and finally the bass rumble of Oliver's response. Was it possible to feel it in her chest from this distance? Felicity paused, took a deep breath and stilled her fingers, which had been nervously rubbing against each other. But before she could raise her hand to knock, the door flew open.

"Felicity?" Thea said, astonished.

"Yep, it's me," Felicity said, with a nervous laugh. "How are you—" but her words were cut off by Thea's squeeze.

"Oh it's so good to see you!" the other woman squealed, leaning back and shooting Felicity a mischievous grin. "Please tell me you're here with some interesting news. Secret baby? Are you and Oliver not really divorced?" At Felicity's blank stare, Thea sighed dramatically. "Probably none of the above. Nothing exciting ever happens here."

Thea had been drawing Felicity into the room as she spoke, and her wave of words was cut off by Oliver's glare. "That's enough, Thea." He folded his arms and focused his gaze on Felicity, blue eyes meeting blue for the first time in more than two years. Felicity tried not to tremble. She wished she could read what he was feeling, but his stony expression revealed little. Was it too much to ask that he feel something when he saw her? Suddenly, his adam's apple moved in a nervous swallow, and Felicity felt a glimmer of triumph. There was something still, after all.

Moira moved forward just behind her son, and her steely glare was almost as formidable. She and Felicity had worked their way to a positive relationship before the breakup, but afterward—well, mess with one of Moira's children and you would live to regret it. Felicity had no idea what story the older woman had heard from Oliver, but leaving a Queen was no doubt an unforgivable sin.

"Hello," said Felicity, putting as much sun into her voice as possible, as if walking into the Queen mansion was not something she had never expected to do again. Oliver's eyes narrowed.

"Felicity Smoak." He crossed his arms over his chest. Was it a protective gesture, or was he just trying to keep from physically pushing her out? She tried not to notice the shape of his biceps under his fitted henley. Not interested, no sir. "While it's always a pleasure, this timing is less than ideal."

"I'd leave, but Thea already confessed she was dying for some drama. You look well, Oliver. How does Laurel feel about the henleys? I can't remember seeing you wear one before, you were fonder of that grey hoodie…"

Oliver closed his eyes in an attempt to compose himself. "Felicity, you can't just walk in here like this after two years—"

Though she was no longer Felicity's biggest fan, smoothing over societal gaffes was almost instinctual for Moira Queen. "Felicity, tell me, how is Roy doing? You were in New York with him for quite some time, weren't you?"

"Roy is doing well. Heartbroken of course not to be here for the wedding. But I'm sure you'll like the people he did send."

"People?" asked Oliver.

"That Roy sent, to Ollie's wedding?" asked Thea. Felicity suddenly remembered how the girl had always tended to perk up at Roy's name.

"Yes, you don't happen to know Iris West and Barry Allen, do you? I'd better come along with you and introduce you, then you can tell them which rooms they're to have. And Iris wants to know if—"

"Felicity. I used to be able to follow your rambles, but you've lost me on this one," said Oliver, in a tone that suggested he was only just holding onto his temper.

"Roy's friends want to stay here over the wedding? That's very strange," said Moira.

"Well, you know how Roy is, always making friends. He got close with Barry and Iris and when he heard they were coming to Starling, he said they could stay with his friends the Queens—"

"Felicity," Oliver said again. He always had liked saying her name, and she had learned the meanings behind each inflection. This way of saying "Felicity" meant "you are full of it," so she barely needed the sentence that followed. "You're lying, I can always tell."

Now it was her turn to narrow her eyes. "Can you really, Oliver?"

But he didn't back down. "You changed jobs after the divorce. Freelance IT, right?"

"Well, that's a pretty simplistic way of putting it—it wasn't just support, I was building systems and advising on security issues," she said.

"And who was your first client?"

Felicity shrugged. "A magazine."

"It wasn't Star CIty Magazine, was it?"

"You are a mass of intuition."

"And I don't suppose Iris or Barry happens to be a photographer? This is rich, Felicity. You know how I feel about publicity. And after everything that's happened. How could you think about doing this to me? I'm going to go in there right now and throw them out," Oliver's last sentence was in his growly voice, so Felicity knew he meant business. But she couldn't stand down.

"You're slipping, Oliver. I used to be intimidated by that voice."

"If that were true, you wouldn't be here now."

When angry, Oliver didn't yell or wave his hands. He just got more controlled. So when his eyes met Felicity's, totally shuttered, she expected his next move—a few steps and smooth push to the door on the other side of the room, and he was out into the hallway, with her at his heels, leaving Thea and Moira behind them.

"Oliver, wait." Her hand on his arm made his step stutter for a second, but he kept moving. "Wait—Oliver. Don't. OK, you're right. About everything. But there's more. Just hear me out."

"Felicity, I don't know what you're doing or why, but I don't have time to figure it out. I'm going to get these people out of my home and you need to leave too."

"Yes, yes, your majesty, but first, can I interest you in some small blackmail?" she fumbled in her purse as he finally stopped and stared. "Photos, an article, quotes from witnesses. Ready to publish in Star and featuring your own dear old dad and a certain vice president."

"Isabel Rochev?"

"Well, it's not Walter Steele," said Felicity. "I always thought he had a soft spot for your mom anyway, at least judging from the way he looked at her—not that I thought that she would—or he would—it's just, OK, I'm stopping in 3,2,1 . . ."

She thought she caught a glimpse of a smile in his eyes at her ramble before he grabbed the paper to scan it. "He can't publish this. Even if it's true! We're about to close that deal with Palmer Tech, a Queen Consolidated scandal is the last thing we need right now."

"Well, he won't. At least, not if you give him something else to publish instead."

Oliver's eyes widened in understanding. "The wedding."

"Exactly. An intimate day with Oliver Queen and his," she cleared her throat, "lovely fiancée. They want every detail. Photos, the whole shebang."

"So I'm to be examined, undressed and generally humiliated at $4.95 a copy," he sighed, pacing the hallway. "You're loving this, aren't you?"

"Am I?" replied Felicity. Their eyes held for a long moment. Oliver scrubbed his hand over his face.

"Fine. You win. I'll welcome them." He turned and walked back to the parlor, where his mother and sister were waiting.

"Well mother, Thea, we've got houseguests."

"Are they reporters?" asked Thea, wide-eyed. "Or are they really Roy's friends?"

"They're not anyone's friends, but we have to pretend they are."

"Why, exactly, is that?" asked Moira, shooting a chilly glance at Felicity as she hovered in the doorway.

"Father. And Isabel," said Oliver in a grim tone.

"Is there no such thing as privacy anymore?" lamented Moira.

"Only in bed, mother—and sometimes not even there," said Oliver, shooting a dark look at Felicity. "But if we have to submit to it to save father's face, we can give them something to write about."

A slow grin spread across Thea's face, making her look even more elfin than usual. "You've got it, big brother."


	2. Chapter 2

Back in the South parlor ("I half expected banjos," Iris had joked), Barry sat on the sofa, foot thrumming with nervous energy. Deception on this scale wasn't really his thing, and from what he knew of the Queen family, they weren't tolerant of incursions into their well-guarded privacy. Iris wandered around the room, seemingly unconcerned, picking up and handling various knick-knacks around the room and wondering aloud how much they had cost. But when the doorknob turned, Barry noticed she was quick to drop the sterling lighter back onto the elegantly carved sofa table she'd taken it from.

Luckily, it was only Felicity. "The family will be down to welcome you shortly," she announced.

"What with?" asked Iris, somewhat snidely.

"Open arms, of course. They're thrilled to have any friends of Roy's."

"And they're not the least bit suspicious?" Barry wondered.

"Of course not, why should they be?" interrupted Iris, rubbing one heel-clad foot along her opposite calf as she leaned idly against the marble mantel. She'd dug her phone out of the pocket of her leather jacket and was scrolling down the screen, presumably looking up her notes on the family. "So, Felicity, we didn't have time to do much research. The fiancée, Laurel Lance, age 30, Starling City Assistant DA. Do you know her well?"

Felicity shrugged. "Well enough."

"How'd they meet?"

"Heaven brought them together, I'd imagine," Felicity said. At Iris' blank stare, she caved. "Actually, they dated off and on in high school. And college. Well, at least, Laurel was in college, and Oliver was in and out of college. He was off and on about a lot of things back then." Felicity stopped talking abruptly, and at this point Barry was pretty sure that she was counting 3, 2, 1 in her head. But Iris was in full-on reporter mode, dogged in pursuit of her story.

"What about Oliver Jonas Queen?"

"What about him?"

"Well, what's he like? What's his leading characteristic?"

"He's not a fan of being asked questions," said Felicity, turning on her heel to exit.

"Leading characteristics to be filled in later," said Barry, as the door closed behind Felicity.

"Doesn't matter. I can fill them in now: Playboy billionaire turned model businessman. The strong, silent type that every woman wants to try to wrap around her finger. The world is his playground and he knows it," Iris settled onto the sofa next to Barry.

"And would I change places with Oliver Jonas Queen for all his wealth and beauty?" asked Barry, in an attempt to lighten the mood. "Oh boy, just ask me." He was rewarded with a small smile from Iris, but before he could appreciate it, a vision in sparkles walked through the doorway.

As a photographer, Barry was aware of Thea Queen's media presence. Her penchant for belly-baring tops had led to a few not-so-clever nicknames. She was dressed in a trademark cropped shirt today, but the skirt seemed to have gone on a diet—and she was dripping with diamonds. Her heels were at least five inches high.

"Ah," she sighed, framing herself dramatically in the open doorway. "How do you do?" Barry warily got up from the sofa as she approached. "Friends of Roy's, right?"

"Yes, I'm Barry Allen, and this is Iris West."

" Очень приятно !" trilled Thea, strutting into the room and extending her hand in a fashion that made Barry wonder if he was supposed to hold it to his lips rather than shake it. Warily, he accepted it and held it in a brief, awkward clasp.

"Sorry, I learned Russian before I learned English—born while Father was working at Queen Consolidated in Moscow, you know," said Thea in a sultry voice. She looked up at Barry, who still held her hand, from beneath long lashes.

Barry glanced at Iris, whose eyebrows were climbing. But before she could say anything, Oliver Queen appeared in the doorway. "Моя младшая сестра," he said, dropping a kiss onto his sister's brown waves. Barry hastily dropped Thea's hand. "Hello, I'm Oliver Queen. So nice having you here. How did you leave Roy?"

"Oh, Roy couldn't be better," said Iris as they stood and shook hands.

"Wonderful," said Oliver, turning to Barry. "We were all so sorry he couldn't be here. I do hope you'll stay for the wedding." He gestured to the sofa as he sank into an armchair across from it, crossing his legs and resting his entwined hands on his knee, the picture of casual elegance.

"Well, that was our idea," said Iris, smoothing her skirt under her legs.

"So glad it occurred to you," replied Oliver.

"A shame your father couldn't be here for the wedding," Iris said.

Oliver just smiled in answer, and his eyes fell onto Barry's camera case. "You a photographer?"

"Definitely a shutterbug. An annoying hobby, so I'll apologise in advance!"

"No need, you couldn't take enough. We don't mind casual photography, although we won't have any reporters or photographers at the wedding, of course." His magnetic blue eyes focused on Iris. "You're a writer, aren't you Iris?"

Barry could have sworn there was a blush rising under Iris' dark skin. And was it his imagination, or had she been staring at Oliver's arms? "Of a sort, yes. Narrative nonfiction."

"Under what name to do you publish?

"My own, of course, Iris West."

"Iris. That's an old-fashioned name."

"Yes, my mother was an English literature professor. I'm named for Iris Murdoch."

Oliver smiled, practically dripping with playboy charm. "English lit was the one class I never flunked out of. Not sure why, but I've always found it fascinating. Where did she teach, your mother?"

"Central City Community College, but she died when I was 5."

"I'm so sorry."

"Thank you. Luckily I had an excellent father. He was a police detective."

"So is my father-in-law! To be, that is," said Oliver. "So how many books have you written?"

"Just one," said Iris.

"One book? Well, perhaps you have other interests?"

"None," said Iris. "Well, other than," she gestured to Barry, who was happy she remembered he was there.

"Oh," said Oliver, "how long have you been together?"

"No," said Barry, "we're actually just best friends. Raised together. Not dating. We've never dated." He kept his eyes on Oliver as he spoke, not trusting himself to look toward Iris to gauge her reaction.

"I see," said Oliver, after a pause. "That's interesting. So, have either of you ever been married? Engaged?"

"No," said Barry, but Oliver was continuing after picking up on some sort of visual cue from Iris.

"You mean you were, but now you're not?"

Barry turned to Iris, jaw hanging open. "You were never married. There's no way."

"No! Just engaged. It didn't last 48 hours."

"And you never told me?"

"Well, you were studying in Italy that summer. With the time change, it was practically over by the time you work up in the morning," Iris said defiantly. "Every girl needs a few secrets." She turned back to Oliver. "Eddie Thawne. Central City PD."

Barry shook his head. "Just when you think you know someone, am I right?"

Oliver's smile was one Barry would quantify as satisfied. "Well, let me go and see what's keeping my mother."

After he'd walked out the door, Iris turned to Barry. "Just who is interviewing whom here?"

"You don't think he—"

"I don't think he thinks at all, no," said Iris, "but still."

"Do you want me to take the lead?"

"I want to go home," Iris said matter of factly. "But that's not happening."

Another noise at the door had them both on alert, but this time it was the Queen matriarch who entered. Though she was casually dressed in tailored slacks and a silky blouse, Moira Queen still managed to give off the impression of someone at a formal gala. Barry had a feeling the same would apply if she were wearing sweatpants, although he found the image difficult to actually visualize.

"How do you do?" she asked. "So sorry not to have come in sooner, but things are a bit hectic around here these days." Before Barry or Iris could answer, Oliver walked back in the room. Moira held out her hands to him. "My beautiful boy," she said as he raised her fingers to his lips. "He's going to leave me, you know."

"Shall we have a drink outside?" Oliver suggested, taking Iris' elbow. Barry belatedly did the same for Moira, and followed them through the french doors onto a patio that faced onto an elegantly terraced back lawn.

A long-legged brunette in a black dress came loping across it, pushing a lock of hair behind her ears. "I hope I'm not late, Moira," she said, planting a kiss on Moira Queen's perfect cheek.

"You're right on time, Laurel dear," said Moira, as Thea, who, Barry noticed, had removed a few gemstones from her neck and fingers, stepped outside and accepted a drink from the tray Raisa offered. "We have a wonderful surprise: Roy's friends have joined us for the wedding. Laurel Lance, please meet Mr. Allen and Miss . . . "

"West," supplied Iris.

"Iris West," said Oliver laconically.

"But please call me Iris, and he's Barry," Iris said as the two women shook hands.

"She's a writer," added Moira.

"I have great respect for writers," said Laurel as she moved to greet Oliver. "Hello, darling," she said, planting a brief kiss on his lips.

"I guess it must be love," smiled Iris, as she took a glass from the tray.

"Your guess is right," Laurel replied, twining an arm around Oliver's waist. Their heads, bowed together, jerked up at the click of a camera lens.

"Very sweet," said Barry, lowering the camera.

"I'd love to see one of those, Barry," said Laurel.

"You will," he replied, trying to remember the basics from that boxing elective he'd taken in college. If the look on Oliver's face was any indication, he was going to need them by the time this weekend was over.

* * *

Felicity hovered around the corner from the patio, attempting to screw up her courage to saunter into a lunch celebrating her ex-husband's engagement. Someone had to protect Barry and Iris from Oliver, right? Or was it the other way around? She wasn't sure, but either way she had to see this through. She stilled her thumb and index finger, stood up straight and sailed in on a "Hello again, Moira, I think I will stay for lunch after all."

It was all she could do to keep from erupting in nervous giggles at the expressions of the family around the drinks tray. Thea was grinning like a lunatic. Laurel's elegant jaw hung open briefly, while Oliver's tightened with anger. Even Moira betrayed a moment of irritation—after all, she hadn't actually invited Felicity to lunch—before smoothing her face into the mask of an ideal hostess.

"Hello again, Laurel."

Laurel's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Felicity." The two traded air kisses as Oliver glowered from behind Laurel's shoulder. There was the click of a camera shutter. Felicity paused and made a moue at Barry as he clicked again. Oliver's jaw ticked.

"Laurel, you look beautiful as ever. How do you do it? This one always wore me out," she said, slapping Oliver lightly on the chest. Laurel's eyes widened and Felicity rewound what she'd just said in her head. Oh god. One hour with Oliver and she was already making double entendres right and left. "Not in the sense of keeping me up at night, although . . . uh, more in the sense that he's difficult. How are the wedding preparations coming, Mrs. Queen," she said, in an attempt to change the subject.

"Everything's completely on track," said Moira smoothly. "And of course, we're just indebted to you for bringing Barry and Iris our way."

"It's almost impossible to repay that debt," said Oliver snidely, and Felicity wished she could whack him on the chest again.

"But you'll try, won't you Oliver?"

Thea laughed. "They grew up together, you know," she said, sidling up next to Barry. "In a manner of speaking, at least."

"So did Barry and I," said Iris. "Seems like it may have been in a different manner of speaking."

"I hope you're giving him a kick in the pants from time to time, Laurel. Oliver is so stubborn; he needs someone to remind him that it doesn't always have to be his way or the highway."

"I'm afraid Ollie can't count on me for that," said Laurel, grasping Oliver's hand and squeezing. "There's no need; that's not the way we work together."

"That's a shame; he could use a few nudges along the path to personal growth," said Felicity. "Maybe you should have stuck with me a little longer, Oliver."

"I thought it was for life, and then the judge gave me a full pardon," he replied, turning toward Laurel and giving her arm a squeeze.

"You never did pull punches, did you?"

"Not good strategy to hold back if your opponent isn't." Oliver hadn't taken his eyes off Laurel as they spoke, but after these words he turned his head to face Felicity and their eyes locked over an exchange of fake smiles.

The snap of Barry's camera broke the intensity of the moment.

"They grew up together," said Iris.

"Lunch is served," said Raisa from the doorway.

* * *

As Oliver watched his mother lead Thea into the house, he took a deep breath. He hadn't felt this angry in years—more than two, to be exact—and he'd lost the ability to hide it, it appeared. But he needed to. There was a reporter watching his every move and a camera to boot. Those photos of him with Felicity and Laurel . . . he'd been photographed in nearly every sort of compromising position in his youth, but that was all in the past. The thought of his marriage and divorce being tabloid fodder now was more than he could bear. He bent to the table and picked up two glasses of champagne, proffering them to Barry. As he expected, Barry set his camera onto the low table to take them. Just as Barry's back was halfway turned to pass the drink to Iris, Oliver hooked his foot under the leg of the table, spilling the champagne glasses and bottle onto the expensive digital camera.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," he said as Barry stared incredulously at the disaster and Felicity swooped to snatch it up. She had an instinct to protect electronics. "I hope it's not completely ruined."

Felicity eyed him over the dripping camera. "I had a feeling something like that might happen," she said as she passed it to Barry. "You aren't going to be able to turn this on again until it's completely dry. Luckily, SD cards are waterproof these days." You didn't know that, did you? her eyes said as they met Oliver's.

Oliver opened his mouth to respond, but then he caught sight of Thea gesturing madly behind the glass door. "Excuse me," he said, stepping inside.

"What is it?" he hissed.

"Father is here, with Walter!" she whispered, as Barry, Iris, Laurel and Felicity crossed the threshold.

"I've got this," said Oliver, placing a reassuring hand on his sister's shoulder for a moment before nudging her toward the group. In a louder voice, he said, "go on into lunch, everyone—I just need a quick word with my father before we eat." He shook hands quickly with Walter, who followed the group into the dining room.

"Two more places, Raisa," said Moira in a strong voice, although as her son Oliver could hear the hint of desperation.

"Father," he said evenly, once the room was empty.

"Who's in the hot seat?" asked Robert. It seems Oliver wasn't the only one who could tell when Moira Queen was under stress.

"We are, thanks to you," growled Oliver. "So we're going to have to play happy family for two reporters who need a story to run that's NOT about you and Isabel."

"Still the family protector, hey Oliver? Even when the threat is your own father," Robert said. "Shocking that I don't spend much time at home these days."

"Don't try to turn this on me," Oliver said. "We're in this mess because of you. Play along." And he turned on his heel, leaving Robert to follow him into the dining room.


	3. Chapter 3

Lunch was a chilly yet civilized affair, with Moira smoothing over the worst conversational gaps thanks to a surprisingly able assist from Walter. Barry couldn't help but think that the family suspected something, despite Iris' unconcern. After all, what kind of friend sent two random strangers to stay with a family during a wedding? Even if the house did have almost a dozen bedrooms, which he was pretty sure the Queen mansion did.

He was relieved when Moira stood, signaling the end of the meal. He scrambled out of his seat immediately, mumbling something about going for a walk downtown to get someone to take a look at his camera. Iris excused herself along with him. Maybe she was feeling the strain, too.

Downtown Starling City was busy, and Barry quickly found a camera shop. Fingers crossed they knew what they were doing and could fix the damage done by Oliver. He looked at Iris, gesturing toward the building. "Wanna come in with me?"

Iris shook her head. "Nah. I'm going to duck into the library and see if they have anything on the Queens in the archive. I'll meet you back here in about an hour?"

Barry nodded and watched her go.

* * *

Oliver shifted in the uncomfortable wooden chairs at the library table. Surely a place named after his grandfather could have more up-to-date seating? He made a mental note to remember to bring that up at the next library board meeting, but after reading five pages of Iris' book, he forgot about his discomfort. He was wrapped up in a story he knew all too well—told in a way he had always thought it should be. The Starling City Quake victims' testimonies were portrayed with a real depth and urgency, and Iris didn't hesitate when it came to calling out the corrupt politicians who had failed to respond in time to save so many.

His concentration was disrupted by a tapping foot behind him. Oliver sighed and turned his head to complain to whoever it was, and was surprised to see Iris' brown eyes fixed on him. "Couldn't you afford to buy my book?" she asked, clearly disgruntled.

"Bookstore didn't have it," said Oliver with a shrug.

Iris gave an exasperated sigh. "Story of my life." She rounded the table and slid into the chair next to him. "Hey, are you sure you want to do that? You know what happens to pampered billionaire playboys when they start reading books—might have to start thinking. Might as well have cats and dogs living together."

Oliver ignored her sarcasm, closing the book carefully on a scrap of paper to hold his place as he met her eyes. "Iris—this book is incredible. Your reporting, your ability to show the suffering of real people in a way that makes others feel it too. It's almost poetic. This is the book about the quake that we needed."

"It's totally poetic, and of course it is. That's why I wrote it. Someone had to keep those guys from getting off the hook," said Iris with easy confidence.

"I don't understand you now," said Oliver, earning a stern glare from the librarian as the heads of a few readers nearby popped up.

"I got the impression you had me pegged from minute one," drawled Iris, who, Oliver realized with no small amount of admiration, either didn't notice or didn't care about disturbing the atmosphere. "And I didn't know you cared about the earthquake."

"I thought I did have you pegged, but maybe I was as wrong about that as you are about me." Oliver looked down, rubbing his fingers together in a nervous tic. "As for your other question, I thought you would have realized why I might care. I suppose with more than 500 victims, even a leading authority might not remember all their names."

Iris took a deep breath. "Tommy Merlyn. His father wouldn't talk and neither would his best friend." She shook her head. "You."

"Well, if I had known you were writing a book like this one," Oliver began, lifting his eyes back to hers.

The disapproving librarian stepped up her glare into a determined "SHHH!"

Oliver had suddenly had enough. He stood. "Come on. Let's get out of here." He grabbed Iris' hand and the book and pulled her out into the sunshine. A silver Bentley stood at the curb, and he opened the door for her.

They rode in silence for a minute before Oliver asked, "When you can write like this, how can you do anything else? Why would you do anything else?"

Iris looked up from her phone, and he heard the whoosh of an outgoing text message. "You may not believe this, but some of us have to actually earn a living."

"Books make money, don't they?"

"Not when there are libraries around," smiled Iris. "But seriously, that book represents two solid years of hard work—writing, interviews and investigations. And guess how much I sold it for? $25,000. If I earn out that advance, I may see some royalties, but until then…" she shrugged.

Oliver frowned. "That doesn't seem right."

"Maybe not, but that's publishing."

"What about Barry?"

"Barry? He's a fantastic photographer, but his real passion is painting. But Barry must eat, so photography it is. He doesn't like it any more than I do, really; he's just better at hiding it."

"You seem to know him well."

"I know him better than anyone," said Iris. "He's been my best friend since we were 5, and he moved in with me and my dad when we were 11."

"That explains it."

"Explains what?"

"How easy you are with each other."

"You and Laurel have known each other almost as long, right?"

Oliver let out a low chuckle. "Yes, but I'm not sure that has made us any better at understanding each other." At Iris' searching look, he suddenly recalled her reason for being in the car with him, and cursed himself for dropping his guard. "Until recently, anyway." Somehow, he had a feeling she saw through his back pedaling. Why had he let that slip?

Her gaze didn't drop—if anything, it got sharper—but luckily the car pulled up at the house at exactly that moment. Not waiting for the driver, Oliver leaned across Iris and opened her door for her. As he followed her out of the backseat, he called to the driver, "Tell Ms. Lance we'll be at the pool," barely waiting for a response before he took Iris' arm and led her across the lawn.

* * *

At the register at the camera shop, Barry felt his phone buzz as it emitted Iris' text tone. He dug it out from his back pocket, looked at the screen, and sighed.

"More bad news?" asked the clerk, who had just told Barry that the $25 memory card was fine but the $1000 camera, sadly, was not.

"Let's just say it's not my day," he said, handing over his credit card and shoving the phone back in his pocket.

* * *

Iris tried not to gape at the pool, which was one of the most beautiful she'd ever seen. Pond-shaped, and set in natural stone, it was landscaped with palm trees and tropical bushes and had what looked to be a hot tub at one end. There was a diving board and . . . a water slide? Oliver must have caught her quizzical glance. His mouth turned up at one corner as he said, "Thea insisted."

He took her elbow lightly, steering her toward the modern-looking cabana at the far end of the pool. "You should find everything you need in here." Without waiting for her to respond, he walked into an adjacent stall and kept talking.

"So you could pursue your writing if you didn't have to worry about day-to-day, right?" Oliver asked, his voice muffled. Was he pulling off his shirt? She turned to a small shelf, which looked to contain swimming suits in various sizes and colors.

"Sure, I guess," said Iris, picking up and quickly discarding a hot pink one-piece that was so deconstructed she'd probably need a maid's help to get into it. Next.

"Well, I don't know how you'll feel about this, but I have this house in Coast City that I never use. It belonged to the Deardens. Anyway, it's small, but it's right on the beach. We're almost never there as it is, and I don't think Laurel likes it very much so I'll probably be there even less after the wedding."

There was a story behind that statement, but for once Iris was too stunned to pursue it. Was he offering her a beach house?

"If you're interested, it's all yours. A shame to think of it going to waste."

He was offering her a beach house. She bent to pick up the lime-green bikini top that had dropped from her fingers at that realization. She knew someone who had a house he didn't even use? Probably more than one. As she hooked the back clasp, she weighed her reply.

"You can hear me, right, Iris?" Oliver's changing room door opened.

"Yes, I can hear you," she said, wrapping a robe around her and opening her own door. "I'm flattered, but Oliver—" she paused as his gaze snapped toward the entryway. Just as she was starting to wonder why, she heard a clatter of heels on the flagstones.

"That's Felicity," said Oliver, an unreadable look crossing his face. He tightened the belt of his own robe. Iris wondered how he could tell one heel-clad step from another, but took his word for it. "Listen, she—well, I'd rather not be alone with her, if you don't mind."

Iris had no intention of missing an interaction between those two, but of course he didn't know that. "Sure."

"Well, the house is terrific and I think you'd get a lot of writing done there. I could make sure the family never bothered you . . ." he trailed off, probably at the look that was no doubt on her face. Barry called it her "nice but firm" face. And he was probably being charitable.

"Look, Oliver, this is really thoughtful of you, but the wealthy as patron of the arts idea went out a couple hundred years ago at least. I might not love the way I'm making my way in the world, but I need to do it myself."

Oliver's jaw set. "If that's the way you feel." All the openness, the connection she'd felt when they were discussing her work, was abruptly gone. He walked toward the pool, dropping his robe on a lounge chair—and wow, that was a back, that was a back she could write a book about, probably—and climbing onto the diving board.

Felicity appeared at the far side of the pool, just as Oliver dove in, her pink dress bright against the green palms. Iris' eyes met Felicity's over the spot where Oliver had submerged, in a moment of female solidarity in admiration of the male form. Oliver surfaced and started swimming toward Iris. By the time he put his arms up on the side of the pool, Felicity was there, too.

"Hello," she said.

"Hello," he replied.

Iris took an involuntary step back. She was sure she'd felt a crackle. Suddenly she had no trouble understanding why these two had married just weeks after meeting in Vegas.

Oliver pulled himself out of the pool and grabbed a towel off the table, which also held a tray of drinks that Iris hadn't noticed anyone bringing over. Maybe she was getting used to having "help" already, or maybe the Queen servants were just that good. Either way, she could use something to take the edge off. She snatched a glass and passed one to Felicity as Oliver used the towel to dry his hair. Damn. Gym rats weren't usually her type, but Iris would challenge any woman to witness this and not be moved.

"So, you're back," said Oliver to Felicity, lowering the towel. "Can I ask why?"

Despite her earlier promise—and intentions to shamelessly listen in to their conversation—Iris suddenly felt like being anywhere but in the middle of a fight between these two. As she started to turn and walk away, Oliver said, without taking his eyes from Felicity, "No, don't go, Iris." She paused, uncertain.

"No, don't go, Iris. As a writer this should be just up your street," said Felicity wryly. "Don't miss a word." She turned her attention back to Oliver, whose eyes had never left her. "You're looking very polished these days, Oliver. Every bit the CEO in training. You'd never guess that it was something you don't even want."

"And so we're going to talk about what I want?" he said, draping the towel around his neck.

"Well, of course, it's always about what you want." Felicity's tone was airy, but Iris sensed a bite beneath it.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Let's see. Well, he's protective to a fault, Iris," said Felicity.

"To a fault, Iris!" repeated Oliver ironically. "One of many, I'm sure."

"Sure, I could list them all day, but that was definitely the biggest. You never understood why that bothered me, and you didn't try. My long-absent father reappeared in my life and tried to control me and my mother with money, you see," she explained to Iris, who, nonplussed, could only nod.

"I never—"

"No, you never," said Felicity, sounding a bit tired. "You never controlled me with money, but you never understood why I didn't want to be followed or tracked. Why I wanted you to depend on me like I depended on you. When I realized that our relationship wasn't going to be one of equals, but more like a dictatorship run by—oh, never mind."

"Say it," growled Oliver. Iris' gaze panned between them, blue eyes locked on each other. Oliver was damp, chest partially covered by the towel draped over his shoulders; Felicity's impeccably dressed figure made quite a contrast. They'd stepped closer to one another as they spoke and were now only a couple of feet apart. Iris was pretty sure they'd completely forgotten she was there.

"By a man I didn't recognize," said Felicity, firmly, and Iris had to admire her standing up to Oliver's somewhat intimidating tone. "Well, that was when I started trying to get you back. And we fought. I fought you, for you. It didn't work, and you left." Felicity didn't back away, but her voice faltered a bit on the last word.

"Felicity, you are the one who told me to go," said Oliver. His arms were crossed protectively over his chest, but Iris noticed his voice had softened, and she saw his hands clench on his biceps, as if he were trying to keep from reaching out.

"Yes, I did say that, didn't I?" Felicity said, a faraway look in her eye.

Iris backed away slowly. She was in it for the story, yes, but even she had a line. This time, they didn't notice.


	4. Chapter 4

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* * *

Felicity reminded herself to breathe. She hadn't expected this tour through their history, but she should have known she wouldn't be able to resist trying to knock through Oliver's walls. She also should have known that he probably wouldn't let her.

Maybe she was crazy to think that she knew the real Oliver—she'd just spent almost twice as much time apart from him as she had known him in the first place, after all. But when she'd seen him again, wearing that henley as the light fell around him on the sun porch, she had felt the same feeling as when their eyes met for the first time over that blackjack table in Vegas. I know who you are.

"You asked what I'm doing here. Well, obviously Wells had something to do with it. But when I read that you were going to marry Laurel, I couldn't believe it."

"Was it that much of a surprise? She's known me forever, for one. She knows Starling City and has standing in the community. She understands my work, and what being the wife of a CEO means."

"The same way your mother does?"

"You know I'm not that kind of husband, Felicity."

"No, but you're signing yourself up for that kind of marriage. One that's all about appearances. Laurel isn't perfect, you know. Other than her looks, being gorgeous Laurel and all." She paused. "That sounded way cattier than I actually meant it as."

"You hardly know her," said Oliver coldly.

"I know enough to know that she's not a match for you."

"So it's a class thing? Just because she doesn't come from the same background as you and I do?"

Felicity rolled her eyes. "Are you being serious about this? You can't have forgotten that I spent most of my life being raised by a Vegas cocktail waitress. My father may have turned out to be rich, but my childhood was more like Laurel's than yours. I'm talking about a difference in personality, or maybe a lack of difference. Not to mention a lot of baggage. Like, over the weight limit. Oliver, you tried it with her. And tried it with her. A lot. What makes you think anything has changed?"

"It's different now, Felicity. We're adults, not teenagers. We've both changed." He turned his back, jerking his shirt over his chest. Good. She didn't need the further distraction of his ridiculous body, on top of that ridiculous face.

"You're both hiding, you mean," said Felicity, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

"And just what do you mean by that?" He had turned back around, staring down into her eyes despite the 4-inch heels she had on. The growl was meant to intimidate; clearly he had forgotten that backing down wasn't her style. Instead, she stepped forward, until they were toe to toe. Or at least, Balenciaga strappy sandal to bare toes. And of course the big idiot was still a good 8 inches taller than she was.

"You know what I mean. You never faced your feelings about losing Tommy, and I'm willing to bet that Laurel didn't either. I take it back—you're a perfect match. Neither of you will ever make emotional demands on the other." There was one question answered. Laurel hadn't found the Oliver that Felicity had lost. She was just giving him better cover.

"You're awfully contemptuous of me all of a sudden, Felicity." His voice was steady but he didn't meet her eyes. She could see his fingers moving slightly, a subtle tell of stress.

Her anger suddenly deflated, as it often had in the past. Whatever she felt for him these days—which had been much more settled before she'd seen him again—it wasn't contempt. Felicity sighed. "Oliver, that's not what this is. I know you care about the people in your life. And I know you're a good person. I wouldn't have fallen in love with you if I didn't believe that." Oh god. She shouldn't have used that phrase. "But you can't be a true husband—or, you know, human—without listening to your heart and not just your head. You can't close yourself off from the people who love you."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, eyes shuttered.

Felicity laughed. "That. I am talking about that. Exactly. That face, those words." She counted down from 3, took a deep breath. This argument had ended two years ago, really.

"I think we've had enough of this argument," said Oliver, jaw set.

Felicity's shoulders sagged slightly, but only for a second. This wasn't really a defeat, she told herself—just a replay of a past one. "Agreed. I've had my say."

Oliver had forgotten the way it felt to fight with Felicity. She was the most stubborn, infuriating person he had ever met, and once she got it into her head that something was wrong, there was no way she was letting it go. She was a splinter, the kind that just went deeper when you tried to get it out. He had his life in order now. Why did she have to come back and knock everything out again? To talk about falling in love with him?

"Felicity." It came out soft, despite his tumultuous emotions. Oliver paused, realizing he had no idea what he wanted to say next. It had just felt necessary, all of a sudden, to say her name.

Felicity looked up at him quizzically, almost hopefully, and he was so intent on her face and trying to interpret what he saw there that he almost jumped when a hand touched his arm from behind. Laurel. Suddenly realizing just how close he had gotten to Felicity in the heat of the moment, he tried to step back subtly.

"I suppose I should object to this twosome," Laurel said lightly, standing on her tiptoes to rest her chin on Oliver's shoulder and smile over it at Felicity.

"Is that legal humor? I'm pretty sure the judge would overrule," said Felicity, with a tight smile and a small step backwards. "I was just leaving. Laurel, anytime you need advice on how to manage him . . ."

"I'll give you a ring," said Laurel drily.

"Do that, will you?" Felicity fumbled in her handbag. "Here, I got you a wedding present," she held out a small paper bag, but when Oliver didn't take it, she set it on the table. "Sorry the wrapping leaves something to be desired. See you, Oliver. Laurel."

Rather than watch her walk away, Oliver turned to face Laurel. Dropping a light kiss on her lips, he said, "Aren't you swimming?"

She frowned. "Ollie, we can't—Walter is hosting that party for us at 8, remember? Plus, I've already had a blowout." She shook out her hair, squealing when he playfully mussed it.

He walked back to the cabana to dress (she had a point about that party). As he was hanging up his wet swim trunks, he heard a rustling. He exited to find Laurel holding something on her palm. "Look what Felicity considers a wedding present. What is this, a Christmas ornament? I thought she was Jewish."

He crossed to her and picked it up, heart beating a little faster. "It's a model of Lucky in Love."

"What?"

"Her father's casino hotel. Which I suppose is hers now. Or Donna's. It's where we met." And where they had gotten married, but he didn't say that. "When"—his voice caught—"Tommy and I were in Vegas for my 29th. We spent two weeks there. It was a good trip." He turned the model over thoughtfully in his hand. He and Tommy had had a blast that first week. And then he had met Felicity, and everything changed. They had fallen in love over the course of a weekend and when it was time to go back to Starling, nothing would do but to bring her with him. A few weeks after that, they'd been back at the Lucky in Love, feeling like the luckiest people in Vegas.

It had only been four years ago, but suddenly Oliver felt like that life had belonged to someone else.

"Laurel, do you think I'm," he swallowed, "closed off? Remote?"

She tipped her head up at his question. For a moment, he thought he caught a flash of sorrow on her face, but if it was there, it was quickly obliterated by a smile that held more than a hint of wickedness. "On the contrary, I find you very . . . accessible." She trailed a finger down the v-neck of his shirt, pressing herself against him.

"Not like that," he began, "I mean—well, what about controlling?"

She sighed and stepped back. "Ollie, you're a man. And I like you that way. No one expects you to start acting like you're on the 'Dr. Phil' show. Landing you wouldn't have felt like nearly as much of an accomplishment if you were."

"So I've been landed now?"

"Of course. Winning unconquerable Oliver Queen, the ultimate playboy—it's an ego boost for any woman."

"Even if I have been conquered, previously." And even if, he thought, it'd been a while since he'd earned that playboy moniker, with the exception of a few women with whom he'd tried to forget about his divorce.

"You mean Felicity?" At his nod, she took his hand, turning it over and tracing her finger over his palm as she continued, "I can't lie; I don't love that she's shown up like this. I wasn't around much when you were together, but it's obvious that things are over between the two of you. And how jealous can I really be of a Vegas wedding that didn't last a year? Answer: Not very." Laurel took a deep breath, looked up, and flashed him another smile. "She may have had you, but I'm the one who gets to keep you, right?"

"You talk like I'm something to be shelved and admired," he said, pulling his hand back. Even as he continued the conversation, a part of him was wondering what he was doing. Was he really trying to get his fiancée to talk about feelings? And was he actually bothered by the fact that she wouldn't?

"As I said, I landed Oliver Queen. Of course I want to admire my accomplishment." When he didn't smile back at her, she frowned. "Ollie, I don't understand what the problem is here. Shouldn't I be proud of my fiancé? Is that a problem?"

He shook his head. "Of course not. Never mind. I'll be dressed when you get back. We don't want to miss Walter's party." He dropped a kiss on the top of her head and walked toward the house.

Oliver took the front stairs two at a time, wishing he had time for a workout to really clear his head. The "swim," such as it was, hadn't been nearly enough. But as he entered the hallway and walked toward his room, he saw something unexpected: His mother and father were standing in the entrance to the back porch, and Robert was winding an arm around his mother's waist. Suddenly his jumbled, frustrated feelings had a target. Oliver was across the hallway in an instant.

"I can't believe you," he seethed, grabbing his father's shoulder and pulling him away from Moira. "You come back here, smelling of Isabel Roschev, to the wedding that I expressly told you NOT to attend, and think you can use this to get back into Mom's good graces? I would have thought she had more self respect than to take back someone as faithless as you."

"There's no need to talk to me like that," Robert replied.

"Oh, I can see how that might be upsetting to you, given the deference you're used to. How does your lady friend talk—or does she purr?"

"Listen, son—"

"Don't you call me son. You lost that right long ago." Oliver's voice was a quiet threat.

Moira placed a calming hand on his arm. "Oliver. This is not a reconciliation. Your father and I have actually just agreed to separate. We don't want the same things and we both know it. It's better for the family - and probably even the company, in the long run. We'll attend the wedding; hopefully the marriage will drown out some of the negative publicity."

Robert interjected. "And we're going to tell those reporters that we know who they are. I'm sick of this charade."

"You act like it was my idea," said Oliver, still coldly controlled. "And like you have any right to give orders in this house."

Robert shook his head. "You know, I was so proud to have a son. Never thought he'd be the one to squeeze me out of my own family."

Oliver let out a bitter bark of a laugh. "You think this is what I wanted? To be the man of the house in my teens? To watch Mom cry over your affairs when she thought I wasn't looking? To see Thea's heart break when you weren't there at her dance recitals? I don't think so. I had my own life and my own dreams, but you made me the man of the house when you treated us like your property, spent your life in the office and on the road, closed off from the people in your life."

With a brittle smile, Robert said, "I hate to break it to you, son, but for someone who spent so much time trying not to be me...it sounds an awful lot like you're describing yourself." He stepped away. "I'm sure Walter will understand if I'm not at the party tonight. I'll see you at the wedding." He nodded to Moira and turned toward the staircase.

Oliver dropped onto one of the sofas that flanked the porch doors, head in his hands. "What a day."

Moira seated herself beside him, smoothing her skirt under her legs. She placed her palm on his back in a wordless gesture of comfort, giving him the courage to say, "Was Dad right? Am I just like him?"

"Of course not," said Moira. "You are not your father. Not inside, at least."

He raised his head. "But outside?"

Moira sighed. "Outside . . . yes, sometimes. Especially after . . ."

"You don't have to be afraid to say his name in front of me."

"Don't I? You never do." She looked at him, challenge in her eyes. His mother was one of the few who had never been afraid to go toe-to-toe with him.

He said it for her anyway. "After Tommy died."

Her gaze softened. "Yes. After Tommy died. Oliver, I know how much you loved him. And I know you grieved. But you didn't let us see it. You didn't let us share it."

"Mom, I—" he hadn't been ready for this conversation. "I couldn't."

"Couldn't you? Why?" When he didn't answer, she tried another question. "Why did you bury yourself at QC instead of moving ahead with the nightclub?"

That, he could tell her, at least part of it. "It wouldn't have been the same, Mom. It wasn't just my dream." And he didn't deserve a dream that Tommy had died for.

Her voice softened. "I know. It's all right, sweetheart. But," she took his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her, "don't hide from the people who love you. I shouldn't have let you do it the first time, and I'm not going to let you do it again."

All he could do was nod awkwardly against her palms, but apparently that was enough. "Right," she said briskly, dropping her hands and standing up in a smooth gesture. "We've got to go to Walter's. I'll see you downstairs in 30 minutes."

Oliver sat on the couch for a few more seconds, stunned. What was the matter with everyone all of a sudden?


	5. Chapter 5

_Nothing like a pre-wedding dance party - unless it's a post-party stop at your ex-wife's place. Hope you like the new chapter! For those who have wondered, there are 10 chapters to this story, and I plan to post about once a week from now on. Thanks for reading and following, and for your reviews!_

* * *

FRIDAY EVENING

Barry ran a finger under the collar of his white dress shirt. He wasn't sure if Wells had chosen a slightly small shirt size on purpose to make him uncomfortable, or if that was just the way bowties were supposed to make you feel. He had never had occasion to wear one before. And was this what they called tails? Hopefully he wasn't totally overdressed. He supposed he was lucky Wells hadn't sent a top hat.

But when Iris came down the winding staircase, he forgot his own attire. Wow. Wells hadn't gone wrong with the fit on her dress, a short silver number that sparkled and contrasted with her smooth dark skin and hair, which was down but swept back over her left shoulder with a silver comb.

Misinterpreting his expression, she rolled her eyes. "I know, a bit much. But it's kind of fun." She took in his tux and whistled. "Hey, you look great, Barry." Then she frowned. "Well, almost." She walked up and adjusted his bowtie. He tried to ignore the seductive scent of her perfume, the one she always wore on special occasions. "There. Now you're perfect."

"You're perfect—I mean, you look beautiful, Iris," Barry stammered. She smiled, but before she could answer, the Queen women joined them in the hall.

Thea did a twirl for the group, her short skirt flaring. "What do you think?"

Moira frowned. "It hikes up a little in the back."

Thea smiled. "No, it's me that does."

"You look lovely, Thea," said Oliver, adjusting a cuff link as he came through the doorway behind them.

"Well, so do you, big brother," she said, standing on tiptoe to press a kiss onto his cheek.

Moira cleared her throat. "Before we leave for the party, there's something we should probably make clear. We know you're from Star City Magazine."

A silence fell over the room, and Barry glanced at Iris, who looked just as uncomfortable as he did. "Mrs. Queen, we wanted to tell you," Barry began. "Iris and I—we weren't happy about this assignment."

She held up a hand. "Not now. We can talk later about the reasons and what happens next. For the time being, let's continue as we are." She took his arm and walked toward the door. "Come along, Thea. Mr. Allen, I believe a car is being brought around for you and Ms. West as well."

Barry cast a helpless glance at Iris, who mouthed _right behind you_ at him.

* * *

Iris felt slightly guilty about sending Barry off to spend a couple of minutes alone with the ruthless Moira Queen. But she couldn't head off to the party without checking in with Oliver. Somehow, over the course of this strange day, she'd started to think they might be friends. He'd understood her work, after all; was it crazy to think she might understand him, at least a little bit?

Once they were alone in the hallway, she said, "So, did you know this whole time? About me and Barry?"

"Guilty," said Oliver.

She cocked her head. "So that's why you and Thea were so over the top at our first meeting?"

He nodded. "Guilty again."

She smiled and shook her head, embarrassed. "Barry told me you knew. I shouldn't have doubted him. He has good instincts about people." She looked down at her feet, "We didn't want to do this, you know."

"It's not your fault," Oliver said, his voice deep. "We'll figure something out."

Iris took a deep breath, relieved. "Thanks. So, are you hitching a ride with us?"

"You go ahead. I'll follow along with Laurel."

"Guests of honor planning to arrive fashionably late?" Iris teased. Getting no response, she looked at him closely. "What's the matter with Oliver Queen?"

He smiled, but Iris could tell his heart wasn't in it. "I try not to refer to myself in the third person these days, but if you ever happy to find out what his problem is, go ahead and let me know. Seems to be the day for it."

"Sure, I'll tell you," she said gently. She rested her hand on his forearm for a brief moment, an automatic response to the uncertainty she heard in his voice, before turning to go to the car.

* * *

Dancers swirled together to the sound of the band on Walter's opulent patio. A light breeze made the candles flicker, and the scent of privet floated on the night air. Oliver whirled Laurel around the dance floor, the flare of her blue satin dress and her brown hair winging out like banners behind them after a particularly daring twirl.

"Do you know what time it is?" she said, laughing up into his face. "It's 1 am."

"In China, it's later than that," he told her. "In China, we'd be married by now. Tommy and I went to China once. Have I told you that story?" Tommy would have had a great time at this party. He was having a good time at this party for Tommy.

Laurel's smile didn't reach her eyes. "No, you didn't. But he did. Do you know, in all these years, I've never danced like this with you?"

Oliver did know, but he couldn't understand what they'd been waiting for. He was about to reply when he felt a tap on his shoulder. "Iris West, reporting for duty."

Laurel's face closed completely. "Sorry, Iris, but Oliver and I are going home after this dance. It's late."

"What? You can't do that to a friend of old Ray's—I mean, an old friend of Roy's," Iris hiccuped. She was a bit unsteady on her feet and latched on to Oliver's arm. He instinctively steadied her.

"Not a friend of Roy's, you're right. I wish old Roy was here," mumbled Oliver.

Laurel sighed. "OK, Oliver, I'm going to grab my wrap, and then we'll leave." She patted his arm and walked away.

"She's wrapped me up," said Oliver, looking after Laurel. "For the shelf." He turned to face Iris. She was his friend, and she wrote beautiful books. "Well, hello you."

Iris beamed. "Hello. You look fine."

"I feel fine."

"Good. Now what was I saying? Oh, I know. Let's have another drink, or would Laurel spank?" Iris looked up at him through her lashes. They were very long, he noticed.

But Oliver was just sober enough to remember, "That's not what you were saying."

"It isn't? All right. Not what I was saying. Oh, oh, I know. Why do you wish Roy was here? Does he like Laurel?"

"Everybody likes Laurel," said Oliver, waving an arm expansively.

"Everybody likes Laurel," repeated Iris absently. "Well, everybody except Felicity Smoak, huh?"

Oliver frowned. People kept bringing up Felicity. So really, it was no surprise that he couldn't stop thinking about her. "Come on. We'll have some wine."

"Some wine," said Iris, "sounds like a wonderful idea. Everything is so wonderful tonight."

Oliver took Iris' arm and steered her across the still crowded patio. Somehow, he managed to walk straight into his mother, who was talking with Walter Steele. "Hello Walter. Hello Mother, I thought you'd left hours ago."

"I had planned to, but I've been having such a good time."

"Everyone should have a good time," he said, casting an arm over his mother's shoulder and pulling her into a half hug. She did look happy. And beautiful, smiling at Walter in a dark blue lace dress that set off her eyes.

"Oliver, what's come over you?" asked Moira, vainly trying to fix the damage his close squeeze had done to her hair. "Your mood has certainly changed in the last few hours."

"Oh, nothing, just that a lot of things I thought mattered maybe don't so much. And, I guess, the other way around," he waved a hand, and accidentally brushed the front of Iris' dress. That's right—he had been with Iris, and they had been heading toward the bar. "But that's another story. Iris, the night is young, and you said you were thirsty. Let's go. Mother, Walter," he nodded and moved a step closer to the bar, pulling Iris behind him, but this time their progress was halted by Laurel.

"There you are," she said. "The car is ready."

"We're just going to have one more drink," Oliver explained.

Iris nodded. "One more drink."

"Not you, Ollie, I'm afraid," said Laurel, crossing her arms in front of her.

"You're afraid? Of one more drink? You never said that when the three of us would go out, Laurel. I can remind you—"

"That was the past, Ollie. I thought we'd agreed to leave it behind us." Laurel sounded angry, but that couldn't be right—she never got angry with him anymore.

"What he really wants, Laurel, is one more dance with you," said his mother. "We all saw how much fun you were having earlier."

Laurel sighed. "Fine. One more. But after that, we're leaving."

Oliver bristled. "Well, if it's too much of a chore . . ."

"Not for me," chirped Iris, oblivious to Laurel's dagger-like stare.

He looked between them for a moment but suddenly Laurel was in his arms and they were on the dance floor.

* * *

Iris watched Oliver and Laurel head to the floor. After this, she was never writing for Wells again. No. She was going to quit. She'd work at Starbucks before she'd do another exploitative celebrity story.

"Oh Oliver," she heard Moira say behind her. "What has gotten into him tonight?"

"The course of true love," began Walter.

"Gathers no moss," said Iris, flashing a bright smile and moving toward the bar. When she reached it, she leaned over and made sure that her cleavage was in full view. It didn't take long for the young bartender to come her way. She gave him her best smolder and said, "Champagne, please. A whole bottle. I'm going on a picnic."

It was closing in on 3 am, the party was winding down, and the kid had spent his entire evening having patience with the whims of the rich and mighty. He shrugged. "Sure." He bent and came back up with a bottle of Veuve, which Iris was just sober enough to appreciate. She dropped a $20 tip onto the bar and headed to the street, doing her best to camouflage the bottle with her large envelope clutch and staggering on her heels.

When she reached the street, Iris sidled up to one of the Queen family cars. She suddenly knew where she had to go. She leaned toward the half-open window and the dozing driver inside. "Follow that cab!"

The driver jolted awake. "Huh? What cab?"

She laughed and slid into the backseat, tugging her short skirt down as best she could with the non-champagne-holding arm. "No cab. I've just always wanted to say that. Take me to the residence of Felicity Smoak Queen!"

Felicity tossed and turned in her bed. It had been that kind of a night. Not even a tricky coding project had been able to completely distract her from going over and over her argument with Oliver. At best, she'd dozed off a few times in the last few hours. She was just wondering if she might as well give in and get up when she heard a car pull up in the drive. A door slammed, and her name—well, a version of it—carried through the night air. "Felicity Smoak-Queen! Say, Felicity Smoak-QUEEEN!"

Felicity stumbled to the front door and pushed it open, rubbing her eyes blearily and tying her bright green bathrobe tighter around her. A stumbling vision in silver met her eyes. "Iris? What's up?"

"Well, you are," said Iris. She giggled.

"I hope it's worth it," muttered Felicity drily.

"It will be! I brought some shlampagne," slurred Iris, holding a bottle in front of her. "Felicity Smoak-Queen. Felicity Smok-ing. Kind of a funny name."

"It's actually still just Smoak. I never changed it."

"Really? You seemed like a woman who would hyphenate." Iris shrugged. "Although that's not my thing, personally."

"Well, I considered it, but my mom spent a lot of time raising me on her own; the least I could do was keep her name. Turned out that was for the best, the way things went." Felicity cut the ramble short, noticing Iris' eyes were looking everywhere but at her. "Am I boring you?"

"Boring me? No, no, of course not." Iris said, seeming to remember where she was. "So, Felicity Smoak, I would like to talk to you."

Felicity sighed. "Well, in that case, let's go in the talking room." She guided Iris into the living room, and gestured to the small sofa. "Don't tell me the party's over so soon."

"No, no," assured Iris, "I just felt like talking to you." She leaned over and clumsily began taking off her heels.

"Well, that's nice," said Felicity, grabbing two glasses from the kitchen and putting them next to the champagne bottle on the coffee table. She sat next to Iris on the couch. If she was going to have a tipsy visitor in the wee hours, she was damn well going to need a drink. Iris' eyes fell on the table, looking at the bottle as if she'd never seen it before.

"Oh," she said, "I wonder if I might borrow a drink?"

Felicity rolled her eyes. "Certainly." she said, privately thinking that adding champagne to Iris' intake for the night was bringing coals to Newcastle. But she poured Iris a small glass and one for herself as well.

Eyeing Felicity over her glass, Iris took a sip and let out a burp. Felicity waited for her to acknowledge the sound. When she didn't, Felicity said, "Excuse you."

Iris frowned. "Hm?"

Felicity tried not to giggle at the look on her face. "Never mind."

Leaning back on the sofa, Iris took in the bookshelf across the room. "What's that? Is that my book?" She crossed the room to pull it off the shelf. "Why Felicity Smoak, you have unexpected depths. But did you read it?"

"When I was trying to get through my divorce, I read anything."

"And did you get through your divorce?" Iris hiccuped, sitting back on the sofa and idly leafing through the book. "Well, of course you did. You're divorced." She put the book down. Her eyes narrowed and she pointed at Felicity. "Are you still in love with him? Or is that too personal a question?"

And there's the reason you came to my place, thought Felicity. "Not personal at all, no," she said evenly. "Are we sharing our salaries next?"

"Barry thinks you are," said Iris, in what Felicity would definitely term a Loud Voice. Then, quieter, "Barry thinks you are. But then, men are such romantics."

"The little dears," said Felicity, who was not really feeling in charity with men right now.

"The little dears," Iris repeated. She paused, losing and then regaining focus. "I don't understand how you could have been married to him and still know so little about him." She hiccupped.

"Can't you?" said Felicity.

"No, I can't you," said Iris. She hiccupped again. "I have the hiccups," she explained, pouring herself another drink. She leaned forward, brown eyes on Felicity's blue. "You know, Oliver's not an ordinary guy. And you said some things to him this afternoon that I didn't like."

"Apologies, Ms. West," said Felicity, trying not to tense up. Drunk talk, she reminded herself. Iris wasn't the first woman to meet Oliver and be bewitched by him, after all, although Felicity did spare a brief pang of sympathy for Barry Allen, whose puppy dog gazes at Iris had not escaped her attention.

"That's quite all right," Iris said, waving the offense away. "But guys like Oliver, they're stand up guys. They'll watch out for you. They're sort of . . . sort of . . ." her eyes softened and Felicity waited, until she couldn't anymore.

"Controlling?"

"No, no no! You said that word this afternoon. No, not controlling," Iris' voice softened and she idly played with the bracelet on her wrist. "Just, in charge. He's a leader . . . kind of like a hero. You can't treat him like other men."

"No, I suppose not," said Felicity flatly. "But then, I suppose Laurel appreciates all that."

"Laurel?" scoffed Iris, leaning back and taking another slug of champagne. "Laurel appreciates Laurel. She's in it for where he can take her, I can tell. She's a five-cent edition of Harrison Wells."

Felicity thought that was rather harsh assessment. Whatever she might think about Laurel and Oliver as a couple, she didn't doubt that they cared about each other. They had been two of the three musketeers after all. She rubbed her eyes. "I always thought Harrison Wells was the five-cent Wells."

Iris' eyes narrowed again. "And then what does that make you worth, for bringing us down here?"

Felicity was really starting to regret this conversation. "But you know why I did that: To get even with my ex."

Now it was Iris' turn to roll her eyes. "Felicity Smoak-Queen." Felicity resisted the urge to correct her. "Barry didn't buy that for five minutes, and I made it about 30 more. Wells is using you, and I want to know why. And how."

Felicity paused. Telling a journalist about the Queen family troubles went against the grain, but she somehow trusted Iris. Before she could make up her mind, Iris went on, "You don't know Wells like I do. The guy's colossal. He's terrific. He's got everybody fooled. No mean Machiavelli is smiling, cynical Harrison Wells."

"He's the cat who ate the canary," muttered Felicity. "Which, it's really weird that that phrase means almost the same thing as being in the catbird seat?"

Iris frowned, confused. But she quickly resumed her monologue. "I suppose you never heard about his little arrangement in Central City?"

"No," said Felicity.

"In Coast City?" At the shake of Felicity's head, Iris continued, "Well, let me tell you about the time he went to New York to get that Peabody. The true story on that little trip would ruin him, that's for sure. Or at least cause his wife to turn and run."

Now it was Felicity's turn to lean forward. "Wait, Iris. What would happen to you if you used this stuff?"

Iris looked confused. "Why?"

"Well, it's just that I might want to, very much," Felicity's hands twisted in her lap. It was confession time. "See, Wells is holding a really dirty piece on Oliver's father. This might stop him from publishing it."

"On Oliver's father?"

Felicity nodded.

"Oh, so that's how he got you to . . ." Felicity nodded again. Iris continued, "and that's how Barry and I were brought in. Blackmail. Nice." She stood, pacing in front of the fireplace for a moment, then turned back to Felicity with a decisive manner, hiccups notwithstanding. "You use it. I'd already decided tonight that I was done with Wells after this, but now that I know why this is happening, there's no way I can do it." She started pacing again. "I'm not going to hand in a story on this wedding. I'm going to write one on Wells."

"How about you do that," said Felicity, "but then I leak it anonymously to the major news sites? That way, your name isn't tied up with it."

Iris nodded. "OK."

Felicity stood up and grabbed her phone, turning on the voice notes function. "All right. Start talking." She sank back down into the couch and picked up her glass of champagne.

"The date was May, 2014," Iris intoned. "The place: a Midtown Hotel." She hiccuped. "Wells had just arrived. And this same Harrison Wells, the protector of democracy and homes and firesides was at this very moment entertaining . . ."

* * *

Barry turned off the car in the driveway of Felicity's house, a small Tudor that was much more homey looking (if less imposing) than the Queen estate. He looked up at the front door. No porch light on, but he could see a silhouette pacing through the sheer window coverings on the front room. He thought by the sparkles that it might be Iris.

Giving the dozing Oliver one last look, he got out of the convertible. As the door slammed, Oliver roused a little. "Where're we?" he muttered.

"Just making a quick stop," said Barry. "You stay here."

"I'll stay here," repeated Oliver, closing his eyes again.

Barry shook his head and made for the door, knocking quietly. It opened to reveal a rumpled but alert Felicity. "We've come for the body of Iris West," he said. But instead of the laugh he expected, he got a distracted half smile.

"I'm glad you came," said Felicity, opening the door wider and gesturing inside to the cheerful teal hallway. "Can you use a computer?"

"No, thanks, I have one at home," said Barry, confused. He could hear Iris' voice now, saying something about "Harrison Wells the good, Harrison Wells the noble . . ."

"I mean, how fast can you type?" asked Felicity. Then she caught sight of the convertible in the driveway, and Oliver in the passenger seat. "Is that. . . . Where's Laurel?"

"Starling's golden girl ADA?" asked Barry, still trying to peer over her shoulder to catch a glimpse of Iris.

"Yeah."

"Funny story: Her groom just dropped her at her apartment, after a slight explosion. During which I received your text."

"A fight?"

"Fifteen rounds, no decision," said Barry. He pushed past Felicity to seek out Iris. "Now where's our favorite roving reporter?"

* * *

Oliver was glad Barry had left him in the car. Most of his buzz had worn off after his argument with Laurel, leaving fatigue in its wake, and chasing after Iris was low on his priority list. He hadn't wanted to leave the party; Laurel had been more than ready to go. When she had finally bundled him into the car, they argued about his drinking. So much for letting loose. That had clearly not been the Oliver Queen that Laurel wanted to see. He sighed, shifting in the seat and enjoying the quiet, broken only by the chirps of cicadas swelling with the summer heat.

When he heard the door open, Oliver didn't bother to open his eyes, just waited for Barry to start the engine. But instead of hearing the car turn over, he heard a rustle of fabric that meant someone was getting comfortable in the driver's seat. "Is Iris coming? It's late." He opened his eyes, but instead of seeing Barry's lanky body folded into the driver's seat, he saw Felicity curled up in it, wearing a ratty green robe, her forehead nearly touching his.

"Hey," she said softly.

"Hey," he replied.

"You look nice, Oliver. Good party?"

He nodded against her forehead. "Yes. You should have been there." He closed his eyes again, savoring the moment. How could one person be responsible for making him feel so unsettled one second and so peaceful the next?

Felicity snorted. "I'll crash a lunch at your house, maybe, but even I know better than to show up at your pre-wedding party. Might have been just the teeniest bit awkward."

He smiled. "You always were the smart one."

"Well, I am a genius," she said, and he opened his eyes to catch the small grin that always accompanied those words.

"And you'll never let me forget it." He couldn't resist reaching out and cradling her cheek with his hand. She took in a swift breath and met his eyes again, something unreadable in hers.

Before he could decipher it, there was a commotion in the driveway. Oliver looked up to see Iris on the doorstep. "Show Barry to a computer, and stand back," said Iris, with a dramatic wave of her arm.

Felicity turned, and Oliver's hand dropped. She slid out of the car. "He can make sense of your ramblings?" She laughed. "Chalk that up as a sentence I never thought I'd be the one directing toward someone else."

Too tipsy to be offended, Iris answered, "Of course he can." She gestured to Barry, who was walking toward them. Iris hopped into the backseat of the car. Oliver slid into the driver's seat.

"Aren't you coming, Barry?" he asked.

"Seems I've got to commit suicide first," was the answer. "Are you OK to take her back? Looks like there's a story to type here."

Oliver frowned. "I'm fine, but . . ." What exactly was going on here again?

"Let him write it, and then take him home," Iris said to Felicity, who gave a mock salute in response.

Too tired to figure out what was happening—and clearly no one was interested in giving him the details—Oliver shrugged and looked over his shoulder at Iris. "Going my way, Miss West?"

Iris smiled. "I prefer Ms.," she said briskly. With an apologetic wave at Barry and Felicity, Oliver started the car and drove off.

* * *

Barry stood next to Felicity, watching the car wind its way down the road toward the Queen mansion. He wasn't sure what had been going on in the front seat when he'd first come outside, but he had a suspicion that Felicity had more feelings toward Oliver than she was willing to admit. Suddenly, being in love with your longtime best friend didn't seem like the most complicated relationship he could imagine.

"So how long have you been in love with Iris?" asked Felicity in a conversational tone as they turned to go back inside.

Barry sputtered, about to deny it, but something about Felicity made it impossible to lie. He sighed. "I'd say it was when we were 13, but I think that's just when I figured it out. Either way, it was already too late."

Felicity nodded. "Just wondering."

"What about you?" asked Barry. "When did you know you were . . ." he jutted his chin in the direction of the disappearing car.

"Oh, about five seconds after he said my name for the first time," said Felicity. She straightened and pushed her glasses up. "Although that was a looooong time ago. Yep. Definitely in the past. Not a me I'm planning on revisiting. Nope." She jostled Barry's shoulder. "Hey. He's getting married tomorrow. So let's write this story tonight, shall we?"

He nodded and followed her into the house. Neither of them looked back.


	6. Chapter 6

_"Too much champagne is just right." —F. Scott Fitzgerald_

 _Oliver and Iris post-party it up, while Barry and Felicity finalize the plans to sink Wells. Laurel visits the mansion at an inopportune moment. No one gets much sleep._

 _ **Note** : Those familiar with the source story will know what's coming this chapter. Keep calm, a new chapter and some answers will be coming soon._

* * *

 _One hour and two bottles of champagne later . . ._

"Did you enjoy the party?" Oliver asked, removing his loosened bow tie from around his neck and depositing it on the table next to his empty champagne glass. As he popped open a third bottle and refilled the coupe, he pushed down the thought that he probably shouldn't have started drinking after having already sobered up once. The wedding wasn't until noon, after all, and he just had to throw on his tux. They had plenty of time.

"Oh, it was glorious," said Iris, launching herself onto a deck chair. "The prettiest thing in this pretty old world, the 1% enjoying their privileges." she raised her champagne glass in a mock toast.

"You're a snob, Iris," Oliver said, moving behind the chair to tip it up.

"No doubt, no doubt," Iris replied absently as Oliver began to push the chair around the patio. "Awash with champagne was Walter K. Steele's pleasure dome, on the nuptial eve of Oliver Jonas—" she paused as Oliver twisted the chair in a tight circle. "Whee! On the nuptial eve of Oliver Jonas—" The chair hit the ground with a thud. Iris twisted around to look at Oliver. "Oliver, you can't marry Laurel."

"Come around about noon tomorrow, might change your mind," drawled Oliver, leaning on the back of the chair, admiring the way the moonlight and the one dim bulb on the porch combined forces to illuminate Iris' form-fitting silver dress and the matching glimmer of silver in the comb adorning her dark hair.

"No, I'm being serious—you just don't seem to match up," said Iris.

"No?" asked Oliver. "Well, if that's true, it's probably my fault."

Iris frowned. "That may be, but still."

"What have you got against Laurel? You've made up your mind about her and me rather quickly, wouldn't you say?"

"I'd say I know how to make up my own mind quickly after 30 years of living," Iris retorted.

Oliver smiled. "The time to make up your mind about people," he said thoughtfully, trailing a finger across Iris' cheek, which he had somehow ended up dangerously close to, "is never."

Iris swallowed. "You're quite a guy, aren't you?"

The grin Oliver deployed this time around had snagged women who had had fewer glasses of champagne than Iris had imbibed that evening. His voice lowered as he said, "Thank you, but I don't think I'm especially remarkable. I know a lot of guys like me; you should get out more." When the light in her eyes went out, he knew he'd done the wrong thing.

"You're right, I definitely need more rich, white, silver-tongued playboys in my life," said Iris, rolling her eyes and standing up.

Stung, Oliver said, "That's a nice bit of reverse snobbery. I'd think a writer would be able to see beyond the surface, at least a little bit."

"Sure, if there's anything there," retorted Iris.

"You've got a lot of brains but no real heart," Oliver snapped back. "How can you be a first-class writer or a first-class human being without it? Without acknowledging emotion or weakness or—" Oh god. He wasn't really angry at Iris. He closed his eyes, suddenly not feeling so pleasantly tipsy anymore.

He cleared his throat. "It's a beautiful night. Let's not argue. Especially about class. What do they matter except for the people in them, after all?"

Iris' arms dropped to her sides, and she took a step toward him. "You really are something, Oliver Queen."

"What, you think I'm more than wealthy arm candy?" He smiled, but the question was more serious than its phrasing, and he took another step forward.

Her eyes narrowed. "Of course. If that's all people see, they're not looking closely enough."

"You don't think I'm . . . controlling, remote or too proud?" He couldn't meet her eyes as he asked. After all, two of the women who knew him best had already delivered their verdict today.

"Well, of course you are. But what kind of man in your position wouldn't be? You love deeply, you're successful and you take care of the people in your life."

Oliver grasped her upper forearms lightly. "Is that who I am?" It was who he wanted to be. It was what he had tried to do, after Tommy, stop making the sort of mistakes that had cost him his best friend. If Iris saw him that way, what did that mean?

Iris rested her hands on his chest for a moment, not meeting his eyes as she smoothed his lapels. "It's who I see," she said softly, before breaking away and turning her back to him.

"What, is your brain taking over again?" As the words came out of his mouth, he knew he was in trouble.

"Isn't that a good thing?" Iris asked, turning around and finally meeting his eyes.

"I'm not sure," said Oliver, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the portico, gaze still locked on hers. Fuzzy with wine, there wasn't much he was sure about, but he definitely wasn't sure about this. His mother, Laurel, Felicity. None of them seemed all that crazy about who he was. Maybe if Iris had a moment to think, she wouldn't be either. Would he ever manage to not disappoint a woman who cared about him?

Iris swallowed as her gaze followed his movements. "I'm about to make a decision for you, but I think you'll like it," she said, and slowly unwrapped his arms to wind them around her, tilting her face up to his.

* * *

Felicity pulled her Mini into the circular drive at the front of the Queen mansion and turned off the ignition. She looked over at Barry. "We're here."

He yawned. "Can't imagine what makes me so sleepy." They grinned at each other and got out of the car, Barry pulling out the key he had been given to let himself in. "Home after a hard day's blackmail," he said, throwing a wry look at Felicity as she closed the door behind her.

She smiled back, although her look was a bit distracted. Walking into the Queen mansion in the wee morning hours felt so familiar—except for the fact that it wasn't a sleepy Oliver leading her inside. And that she was wearing pajama pants and a binary code t-shirt instead of a party dress. But who was looking? "Now we just have to get Harrison Wells here before the wedding."

"What?" asked Barry. "Why?"

"Let's call it a wedding present," replied Felicity. Barry looked a bit shellshocked. Reluctantly, she held the thumb drive out to him. "We can still delete it, if you want."

His eyes focused again. "What? No." He shook his head firmly, holding his hand up to fend off the drive."Nope. Iris' one chance to become a real writer is to be let go from this job."

"And you?" asked Felicity softly.

"Me? I always land on my feet," replied Barry. At her raised eyebrow, he added, "Even if I might trip over them once or twice first."

Felicity smiled and playfully cuffed him on the shoulder as he paused at the foot of the staircase. "You're a good man, Barry Allen."

He ducked his head at the look in her eyes. "Me? I just photograph well." He yawned again. "Certainly out of focus now."

"You should go for a swim," suggested Felicity, still caught up a bit in her memory. "Oliver and I would always swim after a party. He said it cleared our heads, but I was pretty sure he just wanted to see me in my bikini more often." She grimaced at the ramble. When would she learn to control her mouth/brain filter? Now it was her turn to have trouble meeting Barry's eyes.

"Did you? That must have been nice," he said softly. "I'll have to try that with someone, sometime." He turned to go upstairs, but Felicity put a hand on his arm.

"Barry? Why don't you tell her?" Felicity paused. "Even if you hadn't admitted it, I can see that you love her. The way your eyes linger on her when she isn't looking, the smile you fake to play the part. The quiet dreams you keep to yourself." She ran her hand down his arm and took his hand, trying to make sure he knew her words weren't meant to sting.

"You really want to know?" he asked, meeting her eyes over the lintel. At her nod and quick hand squeeze, he continued. "She doesn't know she loves me yet. I'm still waiting for her to figure it out."

Felicity felt a fleeting impulse to smack some sense into a certain reporter. "I repeat, you're a good man, Barry Allen," she said. "But that's a risky strategy. What would you do if another man came along?"

Barry snorted. "Kick his butt, I guess," he replied. Their eyes met, and after a moment, he continued. "That is, unless he was marrying someone else the next day." He squeezed her hand right back, and let go. "Goodnight, Felicity," he said, heading upstairs.

Felicity turned away, toward the French doors leading to the back patio. Maybe if she went and sat by the pool for a minute before heading home, she would be mentally prepared for what was happening tomorrow—well, later today. Because it was happening, and she realized now that she hadn't quite believed it until this moment that it would.

As she lowered her hand to the handle, she froze. Laurel was gliding across the lawn from the side of the house, looking like a page out of the Lululemon catalog in her yoga pants and slub tee, long golden-brown hair pulled up into a ballerina knot (and seriously, how did the woman move like her feet were barely touching the ground?). Before Felicity could decide what to do, Laurel spotted her.

"Felicity? What are you doing here?"

Felicity tried to deflect the question, running her hand self-consciously over what she was sure was a pretty frizzy ponytail. "Friend of the family - until tomorrow, at least," she said awkwardly. Laurel's quizzical frown had her trying another tactic. "I mean, I could ask you the same question. You showed up here even later than I did," she pointed out. "Aren't you and Oliver not supposed to see each other tonight?"

Laurel looked slightly sheepish. "I've been calling Oliver off and on for an hour. No answer. I got a little worried, so I came over."

"Well, I'm sure he just turned off his ringer; tomorrow's a big deal . . ." Felicity trailed off, as her eye fell on a glimmer next to two discarded champagne coupes. It was Oliver's watch. Instinctively, she put her hand over it and surreptitiously dropped it in the pocket of her loose pajama pants. If Oliver took off his watch, it probably meant that he was swimming. Which meant—"You know, Laurel, I think you should probably go to bed. Beauty sleep is a big deal for brides, and I know Oliver—"

The brown gaze that met Felicity's was nothing short of fierce. "I'm not going until I talk to Oliver."

"I'm just saying, he's probably been asleep for a while, and—" Felicity's weak excuse was punctuated by a loud clatter. Both women looked to the back of the yard, where a glimmer of white was slowly making its way through the landscaping. Frack. As it drew closer, she could hear a woman's voice, singing a badly garbled version of . . . wait, was that "Let it Go"?

Felicity suddenly had a premonition. "Look, Laurel, we should both go."

Laurel gave Felicity a look. "What do you know that I don't? Who is that singing?"

Felicity mustered up her most casual shrug, but had a sinking feeling that it would not placate Starling City's most dogged DA. "A gardener?"

Laurel shook her head in disgust at the obvious lie. "Well, I'm waiting here until I find out." She crossed her arms. "And so are you," she said, noting Felicity's speculative glance at the door behind them.

Felicity sighed. "OK. I hope you don't regret it."

Laurel's eyes narrowed. "Why—" but at that very moment, the voice grew louder, and a large white object came rattling up to the last corner along the path from the pool area.

"I'm never going back, the past is in the past. . . ugh." The singing stopped for a moment along with the rattle as the edge of the object froze and jolted forward again, then paused. "Let it go, let it go—come on," said the voice in an irritated tone, and with another jolt the white object changed direction and negotiated the corner. The singing resumed again. Even after most of the shape cleared the bushes, it took Felicity a moment to discern that it was a pool chair, being navigated by a bathrobe-clad Iris West, and piled with . . . towels?

Nope. Not towels, Felicity thought, as Iris froze five feet away from the two women, voice faltering as she sang, "that perfect girl is gone." Towels didn't move, and they definitely didn't say, in a sleepy, masculine baritone, "Don't stop singing." At Oliver's injunction, Iris kept going, albeit at a more measured pace, and resumed her song. "Here I stand, in the light of day! Let the storm rage on, the cold never bothered me anyway."

By that time, Iris had reached Laurel and Felicity. Felicity, afraid to turn to see the expression that was sure to be on Laurel's face, had to admire Iris's chutzpah as she looked at them straight on.

"What's going on here, Iris?" asked Laurel in a tone that sent a chill up Felicity's spine.

Iris shrugged, dropping the chair and raising her arms in a "who can say" gesture. "We tried to go swimming, but as soon as he hit the water, the wine hit him."

The noise seemed to rouse Oliver, and he slid upwards on the chair to an almost-seated position, letting the towels that had covered his bare feet slide to the floor. "Hello, Laurel. Hello Felicity." Then he looked over his shoulder and beamed. "Hey, Iris."

Felicity finally took a look at Laurel and cringed. She looked ready to strike, and Iris was obviously not up for returning fire. Hardly believing that she was actually doing this, Felicity stepped between Laurel and Iris, hoping to god that her ability to babble on demand would come in handy this time. "Yes, what are you doing keeping Oliver up at all hours before his big day? Look at him, he needs his beauty sleep."

He gave her a sleepy smile that she wished she didn't remember so well. "Is it bedtime already? But I was having so much fun. Did you hear, I danced, Felicity?"

She couldn't help but smile back. "Oh, your exploits are famous, buster. But it's time to call this one." Somehow she managed to hoist Oliver partway off the lounge chair and drape him over Iris's shoulder. "Go up to bed, you big idiot," she said, nudging the ticklish spot on his ribs to get him to move his feet and tugging the belt of his robe tight.

Iris bowed a little under Oliver's weight, although he seemed to be doing a halfway decent job of keeping his legs under him and moving.

"I didn't make decisions for anyone tonight," Oliver said to no one in particular. "Conceal don't feel, don't let them know," he crooned.

"Are you singing?" Laurel asked incredulously. "I can't believe you are singing right now."

"Sheesh, you're heavy," Iris complained. "Is this all muscle?"

Felicity muffled a slightly hysterical laugh and pushed Iris and Oliver through the door, muttering directions to Oliver's room that she hoped Laurel couldn't hear. She stood in the doorway, waiting to see that they'd managed the first few stairs, before she straightened her shoulders and turned to face Laurel.

Expecting anger, she was a bit shocked to see instead utter heartbreak on the other woman's face. Instinctively, Felicity reached out. "Laurel. You don't think that—"

Laurel flinched away. Her face closed. "Think what? It's not like you have to think that hard. I have eyes, Felicity. And I know Ollie."

"Do you?" Felicity couldn't help but ask.

"Are you serious right now? You mean you don't think that they—" Laurel lifted her hands helplessly.

"No," said Felicity softly. "I don't think that they."

Laurel sighed. "I don't know what to believe. But whatever happened, he was definitely having more fun with Iris tonight than he's ever had with me. Or I've ever had with him, if I'm being honest, at least when it was just the two of us." She twisted her hands together.

Felicity didn't know what to say about that. She recognized the Oliver who smiled and drank champagne, the one who fell asleep after a swim—in fact, he felt far more familiar to her than the controlled stranger she had divorced. But saying that wouldn't be helpful to Laurel. They had been friendly once, after all, even if it was mostly for Oliver's sake. "Look, Laurel, it's been a crazy day, and it's"—Felicity glanced at her watch and winced—"after 3 am. Let's just get some sleep and see what this feels like in the morning."

Laurel nodded stiffly, and turned to make her way back across the lawn to the gatehouse.

Felicity let herself out through the house.

Neither of them noticed Thea's thoughtful face at her bedroom window, with its perfect view of the patio and the yard beyond.


	7. Chapter 7

_What, exactly, happened last night? Our hero gets closer to having his eyes opened and Felicity and Thea have a moment._

* * *

 _Oliver was in a car with Felicity, but they weren't moving. They were sitting in the front seats, facing each other, and for some reason she was wearing a bathrobe. There was a light in her eyes. She opened her mouth and . . ._ a beam of sunlight hit him in the face. He rolled over with a moan, throwing his arm over his eyes to block the sun. Why hadn't he drawn the curtains last night? He never could sleep past sunrise if it wasn't perfectly dark. Although it seemed like it might be past first light, given how bright it was . . .

Suddenly he remembered: It was his wedding day. He sat up quickly, and then immediately regretted it. Damn, his head hadn't hurt this bad since the morning after his last night on the town with Tommy. That morning, nearly three years ago, the ring of his cell phone had awakened him. When he picked up, Tommy had laughingly called him a lightweight and said he didn't mind checking out the latest potential site for the club without Oliver. "I have a good feeling about this place," he had said, "but I promise not to sign on the dotted line until you're back on your feet again, old man. Are you sure you're not just making up an excuse to spend the day in bed with your lovely wife?"

Oliver hadn't been, but once Felicity came back into the room, dressed in one of his softest t-shirts and carrying a dose of ibuprofen and a large glass of water, he couldn't help but think that late mornings in bed were definitely more appealing than they used to be. She teased him about his tipsy turn at karaoke while he took the pills and drank the water, and then she climbed into bed and tucked herself into his side, kissing the spot on his chest that she always said was hers before nestling her head onto it. Oliver had fallen back to sleep almost instantly, feeling as at peace as a man with a monster headache can. Which made it that much worse to wake up just an hour later to the city falling down around him.

OK, so that was what had happened the last time he had felt like this. What had . . . and then he remembered the party. _Shit_. What time was it? He looked for his watch or his phone, but neither was in the usual place on the nightstand. Instead, that spot was taken by something shiny and decorative, something he vaguely recognized as belonging in a woman's hair. Hm. Had Laurel changed her mind about not staying with him last night? He didn't remember Laurel wearing anything in her hair, but then, he didn't remember a lot about last night. Either way, it was almost certainly past time he got up.

Oliver swung his legs over the side of the bed and threw off the covers—and then he paused. Sleeping in only his boxer-briefs wasn't that unusual, but the fact that they were slightly damp definitely was. Just how drunk had he been last night? Could he possibly have—but no, there was no smell, and he sighed in relief. That was a line even frat-boy Ollie had never crossed. Maybe he had just been too out of it to throw off the covers when he got warm.

Ah. There was his phone. But when he crossed the room to the desk to pick it up, there was an unfamiliar picture on the lock screen. Whose phone was this? But that question was almost forgotten when he saw that it was after 10 am. Shouldn't someone have woken him up before now?

Oliver jumped in the shower, unable to shake the feeling that, just like the last time he had woken up feeling like this, some sort of earthquake was right around the corner.

* * *

Felicity applied a final slick of lipstick to her mouth in a practiced motion. She reached for a Kleenex and a powder brush, pressing the former to her lips before blotting with the latter. There. She was ready. For what, exactly, remained to be seen, but she always felt more herself with lipstick on. After all, it wasn't every day that you woke up to an enigmatic text from your former sister-in-law requesting your presence at the house your ex-husband was about to be married from. Thea's exuberant emoji use signaled desperation, but there was no way Felicity was going to show up at the Queen house for the second time in 24 hours looking like a bedraggled mess.

On the short drive to the Queen estate, she tried to prepare herself. Laurel had been upset, but that didn't mean the wedding was off. Not that she—oh hell. It was time to stop pretending that she didn't want the wedding to be off. No matter what Oliver's not marrying Laurel might mean—and Felicity was careful to remind herself that it would most likely not mean anything for her—Oliver hadn't seemed happy. And Laurel hadn't trusted him.

Raisa opened the door before Felicity could even knock. "Miss Felicity! Thank goodness. Miss Thea—" but she was cut off by the second woman's entrance into the hallway. She'd clearly been waiting for Felicity to arrive.

"Felicity! You're finally here," hissed Thea in a whisper, pulling her through the hallway and out onto the veranda, which had been utterly transformed since the night before. A long banquet table, lined with gold bamboo chairs, was set up there now, covered in an immaculate white tablecloth and carefully set with tasteful bouquets of blue hydrangeas and expensive white dishes with gold rims.

"Present," said Felicity drily. "Although, Thea, you do realize your brother is getting married today and may not be that crazy about his ex-wife showing up?"

"You didn't care about that yesterday. Or, for that matter, last night," said Thea archly.

"Last night? What do you—"

"Felicity, please. I saw you all out here last night. Oliver, Laurel," her voice dropped ominously. "Iris."

"Oh," said Felicity faintly.

"Yes, oh," said Thea. "Look, I couldn't really hear what was going on—except for that obnoxious song—but Laurel didn't look happy and Ollie and Iris weren't exactly properly attired."

"Those are facts. But—" said Felicity helplessly. Oh god. Oliver would hate it if his little sister thought that he would . . . but it wasn't like she could prove that he hadn't . . .

"Oh please," scoffed Thea, waving a hand. "I've seen what champagne does to Oliver. Chattyville with last stop Sleepytown, not Seduction City. Not to mention that he hasn't cheated on a girlfriend since he found out what a lowlife our dad is. I highly doubt he'd start now. But even so, he . . . well, he isn't exactly acting like a guy who's about to marry the woman of his dreams." Her eyes locked on Felicity's. "I think we both know what that looks like."

Felicity ducked her head to avoid the other woman's gaze, trying to banish the image of a beaming Oliver at the end of the aisle in Vegas from her mind. "Do we? And even if we did, people change."

"Not that much. Take it from someone who knows: He's never been head-over-heels for Laurel."

"Maybe that's for the best. We all know how that turned out." Felicity threaded her fingers together in her lap.

"Hey," said Thea, taking her hand. "He changed after Tommy died. Sometimes I think he was trying to drive you away. I just wish I knew why."

Felicity finally met Thea's eyes. "You've gotten pretty wise in the last two years."

"Somebody has to learn from the mistakes of idiots like you and my brother," Thea replied, and Felicity laughed. "Hey, I think I hear said idiot heading our way right now." She squeezed Felicity's hand. "You OK?"

"Yeah, of course," said Felicity, dabbing a tear they both pretended not to see from the corner of her eye. "Hey, Thea," she said, tugging on the girl's hand as she pulled away.

"Yeah?" said Thea, turning back around.

"I really missed you."

Thea smiled. "Me too, braniac." They hugged quickly, breaking apart just as Oliver walked outside.

"Well if it isn't the groom," Thea smirked.

"Hello," said Oliver tentatively. "Nice day, isn't it?"

"Beautiful," chirped Thea, smiling wider as Oliver winced a little at the volume.

"Could have had a little less champagne, though," said Oliver. "My eyes don't seem to want to open properly."

"That's a shame," said Felicity, noting that he was already dressed for the wedding - but not missing the dark circles under his bright blue eyes. Telltale sign of an Oliver hangover.

"What exactly are you doing here today, Felicity?"

"Just visiting with Thea. I'm sure I'll be gone in a moment."

He nodded. "Might be best. I don't think my mother would be thrilled to see you. Speaking of things that are not thrilling, I think I may have been robbed last night at Walter's house. I can't find my watch, and—" he stopped as Felicity started rummaging in her handbag. After a few seconds, she let out a hum of pleasure and snatched something out, opening her palm to reveal the watch.

He picked it up, turning it over in his hand. She could see his confusion. "But, Felicity, you weren't at the party last night."

"Wasn't I?" she asked, watching him carefully.

He frowned. "Well, there were a lot of people there, but no, I'm fairly certain you weren't. I think I would have noticed. But I shouldn't have stayed so late. My head is still fuzzy."

"You should have come home and taken a swim," said Felicity, her face impassive. Thea's eyes flicked from Felicity to Oliver questioningly.

"A swim?" he asked."A swim," he repeated, in deeper tones. Ah. There it was, she thought. He was remembering something.

"That was just the beginning," said Thea darkly, straddling the back of one of the chairs. She rested her arms on the seatback, regarding them speculatively.

"Is your head any clearer now?" asked Felicity. Oliver continued to stare at the watch in his hand, lost in thought—or maybe a memory.

"Speaking of clearer heads," Walter interjected from the doorway, where he had been watching the proceedings, "does anyone know where to find a little hair of the dog?"

"Sounds like a great idea," said Felicity, standing to join him. "We had a special recipe at the casino. Let me help you." She paused. "Thea, if the conversation lags, you might tell Oliver about that dream you had." In a swirl of floral print and peppery perfume, she was gone.

* * *

Oliver looked at his sister, hoping for a distraction that would keep him from thinking too hard about the discomfort he'd felt when Felicity talked about swimming. "What's she talking about, Thea?"

"Oh, just a dream I had," said Thea breezily. "It's crazy; you wouldn't believe it if I told you." Her tone shifted, and she looked into his eyes. "Ollie, I'm going to miss you."

"I'll only be just down the road, Speedy. We'll see each other all the time." He ran his hands around his collar. "What do you think of my wedding tux?"

"You look handsome."

"This bowtie feels so tight; I can't seem to get comfortable," he said.

Thea cast him a look he couldn't read. "You know, that dream was pretty wild."

Oliver sighed. There was nothing he hated more than hearing about other people's dreams, but for whatever reason, Thea seemed determined to tell him about this one. "OK, spill," he said.

"Sit down first," she said, turning around in her chair and patting the table across from her.

He walked around the table and leaned on the back of the chair across from her. "Not a great idea. You know what mom would say if I sat down in this suit."

Thea rolled her eyes. "Fine," she said, leaning back and crossing her arms. "Well," she continued, "I was fast asleep and woke to some strange noises outside. I got out of bed, went to the window and looked out—and what do you think I saw?"

Oliver frowned, still tugging on the bowtie. Why didn't it feel comfortable? "I don't know. A skunk?"

Thea pursed her lips. "Well. Sort of. It was Iris West. And she was pushing something on a lounge chair, and guess what it turned out to be?"

"I have no idea," said Oliver absently. Maybe if he just loosened that knot the tiniest bit . . .

"You," said Thea, causing him to drop his hand and forget all about the bowtie. "And some towels. It looked as though you were coming from the pool," she said.

"The pool," said Oliver, for the third time that morning. A chill went down his back. He could not be remembering what he thought he was remembering. "I'm going crazy. I'm standing here on my own two hands and going crazy," he muttered, pacing as his sister continued.

". . . inside. So a few minutes later, I heard a noise in the hall, so I peeked out the door—and I saw Iris carrying you down the hall, puffing like a steam engine!"

"Seriously, Thea? That was obviously a dream. Have you seen Iris? How exactly do you think she would have carried me down the hall?" But his protest was weak. This was starting to sound all too familiar. He sank back into a chair at the table across from his sister.

Thea rolled her eyes and put her elbows on the table—he had the fleeting thought of his mother's despair, if she were to see—and rested her chin in them, leaning toward him. "OK, so that was poetic license. You were kind of draped over her shoulder. But you were definitely singing. That song that Sara and Nyssa's kid is obsessed with, of all things." She tipped her head quizzically. "I thought you hated that song."

"I do hate that song," said Oliver, resting his own elbows on the table (what the hell) and burying his face in his palms.

"Well, anyway, guess what she did next?"

"No idea," he said, voice muffled by his hands.

"She walked right into your room with you!" Oliver's head came up. His eyes caught the glimmer of the combs he'd left on the table near the door, next to the mysterious phone he'd found with them in his room, and in a flash of memory, saw them gleaming against smooth, dark hair. _Oh no._

"I was worried she would see me, so I closed the door, but a few minutes later, I started to worry about you, so I crept down the hall to your room and—"

"And?" asked Oliver faintly.

"And you were asleep, and she was gone," said Thea, and Oliver let out his breath in a gush.

"Of course she was, because she was never there," he said. "I wouldn't have—I mean, I didn't—" he felt sick even as he protested. Because he had been like that, once, with Laurel before, and what he was remembering didn't look good.

Thea reached across the table for his hand. "Ollie, I know finding out about Dad hurt you, and changed you. You're not careless with people's feelings anymore. At least, not on purpose." She sighed. "I don't know what really happened last night, or why—but I think you owe it to yourself and to Laurel to find out before you walk down the aisle."

He couldn't bring himself to answer.

* * *

Iris made her way to the back veranda, pushing open the doors to see Oliver and Thea sitting at a long table that hadn't been there the previous day. She supposed it was all right for the groom and his sister to breathe on someone's place setting, if anyone could, but she thought putting his hands all over the butter knife might be overkill.

"Thea, your mother is looking for you," said Iris, keeping her eyes on Oliver, who was continuing to twirl the butter knife nervously.

"Great, I guess I'll go find her," said Thea. "I'm sure you two have a lot to talk about anyway." She walked around the long table to Oliver, who finally dropped the knife and stood to receive a quick hug, as Thea whispered something in his ear.

Iris frowned. Did Thea know? She swallowed, unsure where to start. "That was a flock of wine we got away with. I guess we're lucky both to have such good heads," she said cautiously, trying to read Oliver's mood.

"I'm guessing you could drink me under the table," said Oliver, not quite meeting her eyes from his side of the table.

"I don't know about that. I was a little worse for the wear last night."

"Iris—"

"Oliver—" they both spoke at once.

"You first," he said, rubbing the back of his neck and beginning to pace back and forth along the length of the perfectly set table.

"I just thought that maybe we should talk about, uh, the afterparty," she said, trying to catch his eye and wishing the table weren't between them.

"Afterparty?" Oliver paused in his stride and looked up at her. "Oh, you mean the swim," he said, resuming his movements.

"If you want to call it that," Iris said, remembering the way he had barely completed a lap before hauling himself out, wrapping a robe around his wet, underwear-clad body and passing out on the lawn chair. Some swim.

Oliver froze and looked up at her. "What else should I call it?"

"Are you asking me?" said Iris. Her forehead wrinkled. "Look, Oliver, I just have to know—are you actually going through with this today?"

"Why shouldn't I?" he asked quietly, still not quite meeting her eyes.

"Maybe no reason, unless you count how unhappy you seemed last night," she said, trying to be gentle. He hadn't said all that much, but it had been revealing. And no man who was really enthusiastic about his marriage would want to spend the night before it with another woman, however innocent their flirtation had been.

He resumed pacing. "It sounds like I said a lot of things last night. I'd had a lot to drink, Iris."

So this was the closed-off Oliver that everyone had been complaining about. Iris tried not to feel hurt; after all, she'd only known him a day. So he'd read and liked her book, they'd had fun dancing at a party and then he'd told her a few things about himself when he was drunk. Who had she been to think that they were friends? "All right, then. You make your own decisions. I just wanted to make sure there were no regrets about last night."

"Why should I have?" he said flatly, staring way too intensely at the table. She wondered if he was wishing he could pick up the butter knife again.

Iris shook her head. Good luck with this one, Laurel, she thought. Then his eyes finally met hers, and she almost gasped at the emotion in them. He wasn't taking this lightly after all.

"I'm asking you seriously, Iris: What happened that I should regret?" Before she could respond, his face closed again. "No, you know what? Please don't. Just tell me what time it is."

Still a bit stunned, and trying to process what she had seen in his face, wondering what they had done last night to put it there, Iris reached automatically for her phone. Then she remembered. "I have no idea. I couldn't find my phone this morning."

Oliver's face hardened further. "You have no idea how extremely sorry I am to hear that." He jerked his chin toward a small side table that held an elaborate floral arrangement. "There. Is that it?"

Iris reached eagerly for her phone, and noticed a bit of sparkle next to it. "Yes. And my combs, too! I wonder who found them? These belonged to my mother. I should offer a reward," she said, hoping to lighten the mood.

"I don't think a reward will be required," said Oliver, staring off into the distance, hands behind his back.

"Right," said Iris slowly. "Well, I'm going to see about getting some coffee. I could use something to help me wake up. Do you want any?"

Oliver turned away, and shook his head. "I'm plenty awake, thanks. But you go ahead."

Iris watched him for a moment, troubled, before she turned and walked inside.


	8. Chapter 8

_Ready for the truth about That Night? Oliver sure is._

* * *

Oliver sank into one of the chairs at the table, stricken. What had he done? So many years of trying to NOT be his father, in one night all of that was gone. Iris's hair combs had been next to his bed. His last memory was of her giggling and push-pulling him up the stairs. It had been a while, but he knew how that story ended . . . didn't he?

This failure toppled everything. He had built up the idea of another marriage to block out his past mistakes, but now they came roaring back. And to his surprise, hurting Felicity was at the top of the list. The devastation in her eyes, when he hadn't grieved Tommy with her, or when he buried himself in work at QC instead of coming home for dinner. And her anger when he had hired a bodyguard to follow her without her permission. Did you think I wouldn't notice that, Oliver? If you want to make sure I'm OK, how about spending time with me for a change? Or, I don't know, talkingto me? He had made so many mistakes.

Quiet footfalls sounded on the porch, but he didn't look up. He knew who it was. A highball glass landed on the placemat in front of him. "Donna Smoak special," said Felicity.

"What's in it?" he asked, running a finger down the condensation on the side of the glass, still not meeting her eyes.

"Oh, you know. A tried and tested Vegas remedy. Removes the sting." He saw the corner of her mouth turn up in a slight smile.

His eyes finally met hers. "Felicity, don't." How could she be so generous with him?

Her hand jerked on the tablecloth, as if she had started to reach for him and changed her mind. "Don't what?" Her eyes were very blue.

"Don't try to make it better. I don't deserve it after what I've done to you."

"Maybe you don't," she said softly.

He huffed out a breath of air, and shook his head. That was putting it lightly. "There's no maybe about it. But you seem to be doing it anyway."

"You don't expect me to suddenly start listening to you now, do you?" asked Felicity, tilting her head.

He couldn't help but smile. "When you put it that way . . ." he reached for her hand before he could think better of it. "Felicity, what am I going to do?"

She gently squeezed his hand before disentangling her fingers from his. "Why ask me? Shouldn't you be talking to Laurel about this?"

"Laurel." As he repeated her name, a fuzzy memory floated through his mind. He tried to grasp it—something about last night. Had he been talking about Laurel? He realized he'd been silent a few seconds too long when Felicity spoke again.

"Laurel, your fiancee? Gorgeous Laurel? Tall, slim, amazing hair that somehow never frizzes in the rain . . ."

Oliver snapped out of it. "I've got to call her."

"I'm sure she's calmed down by now," Felicity said, but it didn't register; he was already selecting Laurel in his contacts list.

"Laurel? Can you come down here before the wedding? I know, bad luck, but I want to see you. What? No, I didn't get it. OK, I'll see you soon." Oliver hung up and looked at Felicity. "She said she'd already sent a note."

"I knew she would feel better once she'd had time to think," said Felicity.

"Wait—Laurel was here too?" At Felicity's nod, Oliver groaned. "We should have charged admission." He put his head in his hands, elbows on the table. "Say something, Felicity. Anything." Laurel had seen him with Iris. What was she thinking? What had HE been thinking?

"You really should know better than to say that to me," Felicity said. "Because anything is exactly what comes out of my mouth." He looked up as she pointed to her face, circling her finger in the vicinity of her perfectly painted mouth. "No filter there."

Oliver couldn't help but smile, although it faded quickly as his thoughts returned again to what Laurel must have seen on the patio. "God, Felicity. I'm a mess."

"Can someone in a tux be a mess?" Felicity wondered aloud. "I'm not sure it's possible. Especially not you in a tux—" she broke off suddenly, and he could almost hear her counting as she veered to a safer subject. "By the way, you never even acknowledged my wedding present."

"It was beautiful. And sweet, Felicity."

"Quite a casino, wasn't it?" Felicity said.

"Was, and is," replied Oliver. "Maybe one day I'll go back and take another shot at beating the house."

"You never did manage it," said Felicity, eyes going a bit dreamy as she remembered. "Although you were great for distracting the other players while I counted cards." He caught her gaze, expecting to share a smile over the memory, but she ducked her head. "You'll have to hurry, though. There's a developer who's interested—you know those traditional casinos are an endangered species, even just off the Strip."

"You're going to sell that casino? To a developer? For money?"

"That's generally how it works, Oliver. I'm a little concerned that, as a CEO, you had to ask me that." Felicity made an effort at lightness. "Managing casinos isn't really my forte; I held onto it for a while but it just doesn't make sense." She finally met his eyes. "I think it's time to let go."

Oliver tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. It wasn't like what she was saying didn't make sense. "I'm sure you're right."

"You're sure I'm right? Who are you, and what have you done with Oliver Queen?" Felicity joked.

"I'll let you know if I find out," said Oliver.

Felicity's bright smile almost made up for the ache in his chest, which grew as he drew his mind back from the past to try to consider his current situation. He wasn't sure that he was the Oliver Queen he had been yesterday. But maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.

* * *

Felicity tore her eyes away from Oliver's. He had looked so heartbroken when she had mentioned selling the True Love Casino; she hadn't expected that at all. And they were having an actual conversation. She had asked him what he had done with Oliver Queen, but in some ways she felt like she was seeing him for the first time in years. Suddenly she heard several footsteps echoing on the veranda. She stood and turned to see Moira coming in with Iris and Barry behind her.

"Oliver, there you are. Don't you look handsome," said Moira, rising on her toes to kiss his cheek as he stood to greet her. "Although you should not be sitting down in that suit!" She brushed her hand down the back of his suit jacket, removing wrinkles that Felicity couldn't see. "Here's a note Laurel sent over this morning." Moira tucked a slip of paper into his hand and patted his arm absently before turning away, casting her eyes over the table with its gleaming dishes and mounds of flowers. "Doesn't everything look lovely? I've got to run; the guests are arriving. Don't spend too much more time out here waiting." And in a whirl of lacy elegance, Moira was gone.

She left something of an awkward silence in her wake, but it was quickly interrupted by a text tone. Felicity glanced her phone, then looked up at Iris and Barry. "Wells. He says he's reading it."

"I have a feeling it won't be so hard for me to resign now," said Iris wryly.

"And belts will be worn tighter this winter," said Barry. They smiled at each other, understanding now.

Felicity took a deep breath and looked at Oliver, who was frowning over the note. "You heard Moira, Oliver—it's the deadline."

"So is this," he said, starting to read. _"Dear Ollie, I want you to know that you will always be my friend, but what I saw last night was something of a shock."_

Felicity took in a swift breath. Iris and Barry turned to leave.

"No, don't go," said Oliver. "You might as well hear it too." The three exchanged a reluctant glances, but did as he said. The porch was so silent that they all started as a wren called from amid the trees. But Oliver continued.

 _"I thought you had learned from your father's mistakes. What I saw made me question that, and we need to talk seriously—"_

"Oliver," said Laurel softly from the doorway, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Felicity wondered once again how the other woman's hair could look so gorgeous without looking at all styled. It seemed very European. She really should have read that Mirielle Guiliano book her mother had been so high on after those French businessmen and their wives sat in her section for a week. _European women are so low-maintenance,_ Donna had gushed.

"Hello, Laurel," said Oliver, his deep voice jolting Felicity back to the slightly uncomfortable present. She exchanged a look with Barry, who shifted his feet awkwardly.

"Ollie, you're reading my letter to all these people?" Laurel walked toward him, but stopped before she was within arms' reach, and crossed her arms in front of her chest. Oliver appeared not to think anything of her closed-off body language.

"It's only a letter from a friend. They're my friends too," he said, gesturing to Felicity, Barry and Iris. Ignoring their discomfort, he kept reading _"...we need to talk seriously about what this means before going through with our proposed marriage. Can we make each other happy?"_

Oliver looked up. "I thought I'd changed too, Laurel. Believe me, I'm as disappointed as you are. And you're right. I don't know if I can make you happy."

"Is that all you have to say?" asked Laurel, arms folded.

"What else is there to say?" he replied. "I wish I had an explanation, but I don't. I make mistakes. I mess up the lives of people around me. I let Tommy down. I let Felicity down. I don't know why I thought this would be different. You're better off, Laurel."

"Maybe I am, if you're going to cheat on me the night before our wedding," replied Laurel, with a bit of a sneer.

"I guess that's the kind of person I am," said Oliver. "You might as well say good riddance." His voice was even and controlled.

Felicity's toes were tapping with impatience, and she couldn't hold back any longer. "As the only person here with experience being married to you, Oliver, could I just say that this is not the sort of person you are? At all?"

Laurel rolled her eyes. "Felicity, we were both there last night. Could you just keep out of it for a moment?"

"You forget, I am out of this," snapped Felicity.

"Say something, stupid," Barry hissed at Iris, who was staring at the pair with wide eyes.

At his words, Iris seemed to wake up. "Oh." All eyes swerved her way. She cleared her throat. "Listen, Laurel, you might be interested in knowing that this so-called 'cheating' consisted of one kiss and a late-night swim that lasted approximately 2 minutes. And no, that's not a euphemism."

Oliver put a hand on her shoulder. "Iris, thanks, but—"

"That is the truth," she said. "After which, we made our way down here, I dumped Oliver in his room, and doubtless you all remember the rest."

"Doubtless, without a doubt," muttered Felicity.

"You mean that's all it was?" said Laurel.

"Yes," said Iris. "Just a little over-sharing and one smooch, initiated by me, I'm embarrassed to say, thanks to all that champagne. We had a moment, but I don't sleep with men who are practically passed out OR men who are getting married in less than 24 hours."

Oliver grinned. "Women are wonderful."

"Stars," said Barry sarcastically.

"I'm afraid I'm not seeing the humor here, Barry," said Laurel, arms crossed over her chest.

Oliver frowned. "Barry, I—" Felicity cleared her throat lightly. She and Oliver might know where Barry was with Iris, but Iris herself didn't need to find out this way.

Barry must have felt the same, because he cut Oliver off. "Well, we all have wild nights sometimes, or at least we ought to. Plus, I was busy with Felicity." Oliver's frown got deeper. "Writing a story!" said Barry quickly. "About Wells. Iris was slacking in her typing duties. Anyway, uh, it wasn't really you anyway, it was the champagne, right?"

"So if it hadn't been for that drink last night, all this might not have happened," said Laurel.

"Apparently nothing did. What made you think it had?" Oliver asked.

"Well, it didn't take much imagination."

"Not much, perhaps, but just of a certain kind."

"We were talking about two attractive adults, Ollie. And anyway, it seems you didn't think anything too well of yourself."

"That's the odd thing. Somehow I'd have hoped that you'd think better of me than I did."

Laurel dropped her eyes. "You're right. I should have." She paused. "Felicity did." Felicity felt Oliver's eyes snap to hers, and as blue locked on blue, he gave her a faint smile. She gave a small shrug in return, and the smile widened. She couldn't quite read the look in his eyes.

At that moment Moira swept back in, a frown on her face this time. "Felicity, I wish you'd tell me when you invite people to Oliver's weddings."

Felicity blinked. "I . . . didn't realize I had invited anyone to Oliver's wedding, Moira. What's happened?"

"A Mr. Harrison Wells has just shown up, and says he knows you."

"What else did he have to say?" interjected Barry with a frown.

"He sent the strangest message. He said, tell Felicity she wins. Tell her it's dead," said Moira. "I assume he means that completely libelous story he was concocting?" At Felicity's nod, Moira's posture relaxed slightly. "Thank you," she said, laying a hand on Felicity's arm so briefly that Felicity wasn't sure it happened. A moment later, the brisk, all-business expression was back. "Now, where are Oliver and Laurel going?"

Felicity lifted her eyes from the spot on her arm that her former mother-in-law had possibly, maybe just touched in affection (seriously, did that happen?) to see the couple walking down the lawn toward the pool.

* * *

After a wordless walk, Oliver settled himself in a lounge chair next to Laurel. Maybe it would be easier to talk to her without having to look her in the eye all the time.

"Laurel, I—"

"Oliver, wait," said Laurel. "Can I talk first? I just want to say—about what you said earlier: You're not the only one who failed Tommy."

He turned sideways in his chair and looked at her, forgetting his strategy in his surprise. "What do you mean?"

She dropped her head, looking at her hands as they twisted nervously in her lap. "A few weeks before he died, he told me he loved me." She swallowed. "I didn't know what to say. I had never—I mean, all the years the three of us were friends, when it came to romance it had always been you and me. Even though it was all off and on and ups and downs. It sounds so cliche, but I told him I had never thought of him that way. He took it with a smile and a joke, the way he always did with the things that hurt the most."

Oliver nodded. That was Tommy. Laurel continued, "Then the next time I saw him, it was a few weeks later, at your 30th. I was so worried about seeing you with Felicity for the first time, but when I did—I didn't feel anything. Well, not jealousy, anyway." She took a deep breath. "But then Tommy was there with that—does anyone even remember her name? Whoever it was he was seeing at the time. The one who acted like his widow at the—" her breath hitched, "funeral."

"Yeah, I remember," Oliver said. He stilled Laurel's hands with his own. "Hey, it's OK."

She shook her head, still refusing to meet his eye. "No, Oliver, it's not OK. Because when I saw her wrapped around him, that was when I felt jealous. And I was so confused that I didn't say anything. I left the party, I went back to my clerkship in Central City, and tried to tell myself I was just jealous because he was supposed to be my best friend, supporting me the way he always did when things were bad with me and you, instead of letting some model whisper in his ear. And just a few days later, he died, and that was the moment I knew for sure." She was crying in earnest now, taking her hands from his to swipe at her eyes. "What kind of person needs the man they're in love with to die before she realizes how she feels about him?"

Maybe the same kind of person who drives his wife away to punish himself for killing his best friend, Oliver thought. What would Tommy think if he could see them now?

"Oliver, I meant what I wrote in that letter. Whatever happened between you and Iris was the excuse, but it wasn't really the reason I was questioning this. We're not good together. We are too much alike, and I don't make you happy." He opened his mouth to protest as a knee-jerk reaction, but she raised a hand to stop him. "And I'm not sure you make me happy, either. I think you were right to say we should call it a day, even if it was for the wrong reason."

"So you're dumping me, on our wedding day," Oliver said.

Laurel smiled sadly. "Yeah, I guess I am. But remember, you dumped me first."

"If that's the way you want it."

"That's the way it is. For both of us." She kissed his cheek and got up to go.

Oliver leaned back in the lounge chair, looking at the water. Just down the hill was a perfectly set table, and some 100 guests dressed for a wedding that was decidedly not happening. All he felt, he realized, was relief.


	9. Chapter 9

_Oliver and Laurel have called it a day, but how to break it to the wedding guests? Plus, Oliver has something to say to Felicity._

* * *

 _Meanwhile, back on the patio . . ._

"Well," said Moira, clearing her throat, "I suppose I'll tell the minister there's been a delay." She walked off, heels registering a slightly duller sound on the hardwoods inside before fading into the distance. The three people remaining on the patio stood, sipping their drinks in an awkward silence. Barry caught Iris's eye, and he leaned his head toward the door with an inquisitive look. She frowned and shook her head. She needed to see this through. While she was no martyr, Iris did feel a certain amount of responsibility for the current situation here—and what's more, she liked both Oliver and Felicity. Barry gave a slight nod and took another sip of his drink. He'd wait, if that was what she wanted.

Iris looked at Felicity, who was nervously twirling a strand of her hair. Even on short acquaintance, Iris felt fairly certain that the other woman wasn't the type to let a silence stand.

Sure enough, 10 seconds later, Felicity opened her mouth. "Did you know that Russians once made a computer that ran on water?" she said.

Iris liked to think of herself as an adept conversationalist, but she could only stare. That was a remarkably awkward non sequitur, even for Felicity. Luckily, the other woman seemed happy enough to carry on the ramble without support.

"It's true. I mean, obviously it didn't work anything like our computers—this was in 1936—but it ran using taps and levers. It was sophisticated enough to solve partial differential equations."

"I don't even know what those are," said Iris, after a moment, although that wasn't exactly true. She just didn't know enough about them to start a discussion with Felicity on the topic. But she didn't want to leave the other woman hanging. She shot a desperate glance at Barry.

"Most people don't," said Barry, valiantly doing his part to carry the conversation, "which is why we need computers."

"Yep," said Felicity, popping the "p." "Or, you know, people like Russell Crowe in _A Beautiful Mind_. Well, not Russell Crowe, John Nash, but you know what I mean."

"Ohhhh," said Iris, spotting an opportunity to steer the conversation along more conventional lines. "So that's what those symbols were." She frowned. "So is it wrong that I still find Russell Crowe sexy in _L.A. Confidential_ even though I know what a jerk he is in real life?"

Her nonsense gambit was rewarded with a smile from Felicity, who eagerly followed Iris into more normal conversational territory, spending a good 15 minutes chatting about badly behaving celebs they still somehow found attractive.

They'd moved on to debating whether it was worth it to meet your idols (much to Barry's relief, since it expanded the topic from handsome male celebrities) when there was movement on the hillside. Oliver. Alone. His tie was loose and his jacket unbuttoned, and he looked deep in thought.

"I'm not sure coming back to the site of the wedding without your bride-to-be is a good sign," Barry observed.

"Nope," said Iris in a low tone, feeling slightly guilty. As always, Barry seemed to pick up on her mood—he moved to stand beside her and gave her shoulder a friendly nudge with his, sending a wave of warmth through her. He was the best best friend.

They stood in silence until Oliver reached them, a crooked smile on his face. "Well," he said, "I think it's safe to say that there won't be a wedding today."

Barry winced. "I'm sorry, man," he said, clapping a hand on Oliver's shoulder in commiseration.

"It's for the best," Oliver said simply. His forehead wrinkled. "Although I'm not sure how I'm going to break it to everyone that there's not going to be a wedding today. It's not like I can just stroll in there with a different woman on my arm." His gaze fell on Felicity thoughtfully.

Iris's reporter brain immediately went into overdrive. The most anticipated wedding of the season, cancelled on the day of, by the groom? This was going to blow up the gossip columns. She stepped forward.

"Blame it on me, Oliver," she said, putting a hand on his arm. "It's the least I can do. Maybe if your PR team spins it as you being duped by a temptress, you won't have to take quite the same beating in the press." She smiled, although it felt a little bit forced. It had just occurred to her that her dad would read those articles. But her family and friends would know the truth. Not to mention . . . "Hey, I might even sell a few books."

Oliver frowned.

"It's nothing they haven't done before," said Felicity, watching him carefully. "Don't worry, Oliver; they're pros. They will get you out of it, just like they always have."

"Get me out of it?" asked Oliver, shaping the words deliberately, eyes locked on Felicity's.

"Sure," Felicity said evenly. "That's why you pay them the big bucks, to help reporters come up with headlines like MRS. QUEEN'S TARNISHED CROWN." And a few other, less repeatable headlines, if Iris' memory was correct.

"They did that to you?" Oliver seemed genuinely surprised.

"Yes," said Felicity simply.

"No," said Oliver, in a low voice, squaring his shoulders. "Thanks, Iris, I'm beholden to you, in more ways than one, in fact, but no. I won't be gotten out of this by anyone else."

* * *

Oliver made his way down the hall, full of resolve. His talk with Laurel, the offer from Iris, the revelation of yet another way their breakup had hurt Felicity—it was all still a bit of a muddle in his mind, but one thing was clear: He was the only one who was going to handle this particular mess. He threw open the door to the ballroom, where the wedding guests waited. As 100 heads swiveled toward him, the string quartet near the front started playing a processional. Oliver gulped, fighting the instinct to back out the door and away from the curious eyes.

"Hello, I—well, I wanted to thank you all for waiting and apologize for the delay, but—could you please stop playing?" he said to the quartet, who immediately lay down their bows. "Thank you. I'm sorry to say that there isn't going to be a wedding today after all." He wiped his forehead as the crowd let out a soft gasp. Murmurs began, and he raised his hand to silence them.

"As it turns out, I've made a fool of myself, not for the first time, and my fiancée and I—well, my fiancée that was, that is—have decided it's best to call it a day." He took a breath. "Thank you all for coming, and I sincerely apologize for wasting your time." There. It was done, and no one had gotten him out of it at all. He closed the door on the rising chatter of the guests inside—punctuated by the occasional whoosh of an outgoing text message—and turned around to see the anxious faces of Barry, Iris and Felicity, who had been joined by Thea and Moira.

It was Felicity who spoke first. "Are you all right?" she asked, concern on her face, and Oliver couldn't believe she was worried about him, after everything. He looked at her, really looked at her, seeing the brightness of her dress and lips, her small stature in spite of the ridiculous high heels she had always favored, the sharp intelligence in the eyes behind her glasses, and deeper, to her enormous, fiercely loving heart. Felicity, among all the others, had known him, believed in him, after that mess last night. How had he ever thrown that away, shut it out of his life? His heart stuttered in his chest, and suddenly he knew.

"I'm fine," he said, a smile breaking across his face that he knew was confusing just about everyone. "Could I talk to you for a moment, Felicity?" She nodded, and he steered her across the hall to the alcove off the south parlour, barely noticing the curious eyes of the guests as they began to be ushered out of the house by Raisa and his mother.

Oliver closed the door behind them and turned to face her.

"So," she said nervously, "how do you think Moira feels about missing the opportunity to host her son's wedding for a second time? First, an elopement, then a cancellation. Maybe the third time will be the charm?" She winced as the words came out. "Ack, I'm sorry, too soon. Babble."

He smiled. "Hey, it's fine. I'm glad the wedding's off, and mom—well, she has a sharp bite, but she just wants me to be happy. She'll be OK."

Felicity nodded, twirling a strand of her hair around one finger.

"Felicity," he began, "as usual my timing is terrible. I should have realized the minute I saw you again—I think I did, but I just didn't understand. I know it sounds crazy, but everything that's happened this weekend . . . I can't help feeling that the whole point of it was to lead me to this moment, back to you." He took a deep breath. He had to say it. "Can we—do you think we might be able to try again?"

Felicity froze, impossibly blue eyes locked on his, with a look in them he couldn't quite read. Then she stepped forward, pushed up onto her toes and wrapped her hands around his neck, pulling his mouth to hers.

At first the kiss was wild, almost desperate, and in his surprise all he could do was follow where she led, matching her movements as he savored her taste, as familiar and welcome as the sight of the harbor had been after sailing trips with his father. Her hands moved higher, skimming through his hair with firm strokes, then dropping down to caress his shoulders and twine around his neck, and it was all Oliver could do to keep from purring with pleasure. He was kissing Felicity Smoak again, after all these years. The thought made him smile against her lips, and his hands rose to cup her face as he took control, gentling her as his thumbs caressed her cheeks. She gradually broke the kiss, gently sliding her hands up his arms to remove his hands from her face, but she allowed him to twine his fingers with hers as their hands dropped. He leaned his forehead against hers, eyes closed, resting there for a moment. She had come back into his life and now, once again, he couldn't imagine it without her.

But when he opened his eyes to meet hers, she was blinking back tears. Alarmed, Oliver broke the clasp of their hands and backed away, worrying his thumb against his forefinger.

"No," she said softly.

The bottom fell out of Oliver's world.

* * *

Felicity wrapped her arms around herself to keep from reaching for Oliver, from grabbing his hands and telling him she didn't mean it. Two days ago she had been certain that things were truly over between them. But this morning, he'd seemed like the Oliver she had fallen in love with. And the imploring look he had turned on her—the tenderness in his eyes—his heartfelt request . . . the kiss had felt like gravity. Even though she couldn't risk her heart again, Felicity had wanted to tell him without words that oh, she wished she could.

Oliver finally broke the silence. "Why?" he asked. "Felicity, I know my recent actions haven't been . . . and our past . . ." he sighed. "I don't deserve you. But then, I never did." He cleared his throat, shuffled his feet in an uncharacteristically awkward motion. "I don't mean we have to move back in together. We could start with dinner."

Felicity clutched her elbows tighter, closing her eyes for a second to block out the bright hope in his blue gaze. One day with the old Oliver had tempted her, but it wasn't enough to overcome two years of silence or the strain of the last months of their marriage. How could she be sure this would last? How could she survive another heartbreak if it didn't?

"Oliver, this is so . . . it's been years, and you literally JUST called off your wedding to another woman. Is it possible to be too late and too soon? Because I just feel like . . ." she trailed off with a sad shake of her head. "I can't," was all she could manage. She bit her lower lip, where the taste of him was already fading.

Oliver's gaze darkened, and for a moment it looked like he might argue with her. She had a flare of wild hope that he would, that his words would be able to convince her to take a risk that seemed as reckless as hacking the NSA. But he just nodded. "I understand."

"Thank you," she said awkwardly, even though she felt the opposite of grateful. Was there a word for having everything you wanted offered to you and having to turn it down? Maybe in German? She turned to leave before any of these random thoughts could come out as a ramble.

"Felicity, wait," he said, and she turned back around to see Oliver as somber as she had ever seen him.

"I just wanted to say that you're right—a lot has changed these past few days. And I understand why you don't trust me. But I want you to know—that there's a lot I'm not sure of, but I do know two things."

Surprised out of her melancholy thoughts for a moment, Felicity let out a huff of air. Annoying man—he knew she couldn't resist a mystery. She took a step closer, tilting her head. "And those are?"

He gave a small, crooked smile. "The first is that I never stopped loving you. I don't think it's possible."

"And the second?" Felicity asked, once she'd caught her breath.

"I'm going to prove it to you," he said simply.

* * *

 _One more chapter! I hope that Philadelphia Story fans aren't *too* annoyed that I didn't just bundle Felicity off down the aisle. While I enjoy that ending in the film, since Laurel was not as horrible as George it seemed a bit more callous of Oliver to just swap in another woman for her right away, especially since he has some making up to do with Felicity as well._


	10. Chapter 10

_THANK YOU so much for the reviews, favorites and follows. I hope you have enjoyed this fic-feel free to share your reactions to the conclusion!_

 _Previously on "The Time to Make Up Your Mind About People . . ."_

 _Laurel and Oliver called off their wedding. Oliver's attempt to get another chance with Felicity didn't exactly work out. But he isn't going to give up, and has some ideas about how to win back her trust._

* * *

 **Three weeks later**

"Seeing you is a nice surprise, Iris," said Oliver. "I know you're busy with the new gig,"

She raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, about that . . . me getting the business and tech beat at the _Star City News_ wouldn't have anything to do with you, would it?"

"Me?" Oliver pointed at his chest and tried to look innocent. At Iris's head tllt, he caved. "All right, the editor is my godfather, and when I heard you applied, I might have mentioned that you're the kind of writer I would trust with the inside scoop. But it was only a foot in the door," he said, holding out a hand in supplication as she opened her mouth. "The rest was up to you."

Iris shook her head. "Well, given that I lost my last job because of you . . . I can be OK with that."

"Good. At least I'm doing something right." His mouth twisted in a small smile.

"You mean Felicity?"

"Yeah," he said. "How can I show her I've changed if she won't have anything to do with me? If I knew whether she was reading the interviews . . ." he looked up at Iris hopefully. "Do you know if she is?"

Iris hesitated.

"No, don't answer that; I don't want you to tell me something she wouldn't want me to know. But I'm just—" he sighed. "You know, baring my soul and admitting my mistakes to a series of reporters in various media formats isn't my idea of a good time, and interest in the story is dying down now anyway. Luckily it's been great for the company, for some reason, or I'm sure I would have had pressure from the higher-ups to shut it down. Although my executive assistant is complaining about the extra correspondence."

Iris wasn't surprised—the paper was having the same issue. There were plenty of women in Star City who had been touched by Oliver's admissions and were ready to heal his broken heart. Unfortunately, there was only one woman who could do that.

Iris pursed her lips. "Look, Oliver, here's the thing—those articles, well, you're doing a great job being honest about your past mistakes with Felicity, and taking responsibility for the breakup with Laurel. But even if Felicity is reading them, I haven't seen one that comes out and says how you feel about her now."

Oliver frowned. "I know. I wanted to, but . . . I couldn't trust those reporters with that. I'd be opening Laurel up to all kinds of gossip, or snarky headlines, just like what happened with Felicity. Even for Felicity, I can't do that. And I don't think she'd want me to." He rubbed his neck, laughing a little. "I guess I really have changed."

Iris studied him with narrowed eyes. "You know, I think you have. And I might have changed my mind about something, too."

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," said Iris slowly, still turning this epiphany over in her mind, "that tell-all expose that I was sent there to write could be the best thing that ever happened to you. Get someone to tell the true story of the wedding. Minus the drunken sing-along, and with the reveal of your feelings for Felicity."

"What about Laurel?"

Iris waved a hand. "That's easy. She saw how you were feeling and stepped back. Gracious, perceptive, etc, etc."

Oliver tilted his head. "I guess that's not exactly *not* true . . . but can I really start over with Felicity if it means starting with a lie?"

Iris rolled her eyes. "It's not a lie, it's spin. You're protecting Laurel, and I guarantee you Felicity will know why you're doing it and respect you more for it. You just need a sympathetic reporter, one who will help you tell the story you're wanting to tell, and be as honest as possible while protecting all parties involved."

A grin split his face. "Well, then, it's lucky you stopped by."

* * *

 **One week after that**

"You really should talk to him, you know," said Barry, taking the last bite of his Big Belly Burger.

Felicity gave him a look, and stole one of his sweet potato fries. "I don't know who you're talking about."

Barry rolled his eyes. "Oliver, is who I'm talking about."

Felicity chewed the purloined fry, wishing for just a moment that she could feel something for Barry other than friendship. He was sweet, handsome as a Disney prince, and a good friend. And also, hopelessly in love with Iris. Which made him just as unthinkable as Oliver. . . .

Barry cleared his throat, reminding her he was waiting for a response.

Felicity swallowed the fry. "OK, I knew that," she said. "But Barry, I—I mean, is it really a good idea? He wanted to try again, but it's been so long. And true, it's been two years and I haven't been able to forget about him, but does that mean it's true love, or just an unhealthy obsession? I mean, if the next step is boiling bunnies, or building a creepy shrine, I don't want that to become my life."

Barry just looked at her. After several lunches, happy hours and dinners over the last few weeks, with and without Iris, they had expanded enough on the bond they had forged for him to wordlessly call her on her bullshit. This was both fortunate and unfortunate.

Felicity groaned and tipped her head toward the wall at the side of the booth, where it connected with a soft thud. She closed her eyes. "Okay, you're right. I'm scared. It went down in flames last time. I can't do that again."

Barry's voice was gentle. "I know, Felicity. And I know I'm not really the best qualified person to give advice here, but I do know what real love looks like. And sorry if you don't want to hear this, but I see it when I look at you and Oliver."

Unable to meet his eyes, Felicity dragged one of her own regular fries through her pile of ketchup, absently tracing a pattern on her plate. "Do you remember me telling you about my dad?"

Barry wrinkled his forehead. "You said that all you remembered about him the first time around was how it hurt when he left, and how much your life changed when he came back."

Felicity nodded. "It did, and it didn't. I was so happy when he came back—I had this idea of what it would be like to have a father. But it wasn't like that at all. He didn't care about a real relationship with me or my mother, only what we could do for him—for his casinos, his image. What I learned from that mistake," she said softly, "is that heartbreak hurts worse the second time around."

"So you're sure, 100%, that trying again means heartbreak." Barry's gaze was piercing enough that Felicity had to look away again.

Barry slid a paper across the table. "You *have* seen these stories, haven't you?"

Truth was, she hadn't. She had been afraid—afraid that Oliver wouldn't make it right, and also afraid that he would. She narrowed her eyes. "How long have you been carrying this around?"

Barry laughed. "If you'd pick it up, instead of staring at it like it was carrying typhus, you'd see that it's yesterday's. Page 1D might interest you."

Felicity folded the paper and jammed it into her purse. "Fine. I'll look." She caught a glimpse of her phone and frowned. "I've got to get back to work—one of my freelance clients is expecting a progress report. Catch you and Iris for drinks this weekend?" she asked as she stood up.

"Sure," said Barry easily, standing to press a kiss to her cheek. "Look, Felicity," he said, "I'm not going to tell you what's right for you. I know you don't want to get hurt." He paused. "But I also think you're already hurting. Is taking a chance on something that might change that such a bad idea?"

The advice sent a pang to Felicity's battered heart, but she mustered up a smile. "Message received. Next time we go to lunch, though, it's your turn to face the painful truths."

Barry grinned. "I'll consider myself warned."

* * *

"He's a mess," announced Iris as she slung her purse onto the chair in Barry's entryway.

Barry turned his head to look at her over the back of the sofa, where he had been reading a book. "Hello to you, too. I didn't realize you were coming by tonight."

Iris swept into the kitchen, her voice echoing a bit as she rummaged through the fridge. "Didn't you want to debrief on our cupid scheme? I hope you managed to get her to read my article, because it's been 24 hours and he's about to try skywriting. Hey, do you have any beer in here?"

"Bottom shelf. Grab me one?" He marked his page and tossed the novel onto the coffee table as the fridge slammed shut and he heard the hiss of bottles opening.

Iris sank onto the other end of the couch and kicked off her shoes as she handed him a beer. Tucking her feet up under her, she took a long swig of her own. Barry took a guilty moment to admire the graceful line of her throat.

"She's going to read it," Barry said. "I think."

"These two idiots," said Iris, shaking her head. "I mean, don't get me wrong, he owed her this and more. But it's been four weeks, and he's done everything except jump on Oprah's couch. And she won't even talk to him?"

Barry had been just as exasperated by Felicity's behavior earlier that afternoon, but somehow he found himself coming to her defense. "She's scared, Iris. It's not easy to tell someone how you feel, risk being hurt. And he's already broken her trust once."

"I know, you're right. She deserves a quality grovel and then some." Iris took another long sip of her beer. "But it's not like she's happy without him, either. God, Bar, spare me from ever falling in love, will you?"

"Sure," said Barry, in a voice that cracked. He cleared his throat. "What are friends for?"

* * *

Felicity succeeded in putting the article out of her mind for the rest of the afternoon as she settled into her usual corner at her favorite coffee shop. Losing herself in lines of code had always been something she was able to do, and this current client's project was certainly complicated enough. But when she closed the laptop and slipped it into her bag, the rustle of the newspaper reminded her, and she thought about it the whole drive home.

Once back in her condo, she slowly drew the paper from the bag, smoothing it out on the table. She skimmed an article about the local college sports team beating their archrival, and another about the rising housing market, but she couldn't concentrate for thinking what might be waiting on 1D. She got up, poured a glass of wine, sat back down. Stared at the paper for another 30 seconds, before abruptly peeling back the first three sections . . . to find herself looking into Oliver's eyes under Iris's byline. "The true story of Star City's wedding of the year," the headline promised.

"Oh frack," Felicity muttered, taking a long sip of her wine. Ten minutes later, she was muttering to herself as she turned the page to continue the story. Five minutes after that, she folded the paper, pushed it aside, and drained her wine glass. Then she pulled out her computer again and started searching Oliver's name. Headlines glared up at her, just like before, but instead of referring to her or Laurel, they were all centered on Oliver. (QUEEN COMES CLEAN had been used more than once.)

In every one, Oliver had taken responsibility for the breakup with Laurel, and expressed his regret at allowing the press to savage Felicity during their divorce. But yesterday's article had revealed something more. She closed the computer and spread the article back out in front of her, scanning for the quotes that had burned into her mind.

 _"I never stopped loving her,"_ Oliver had admitted.

"Could have fooled me," Felicity said with a moue, taking a sip from the wine glass she had refilled. Twice.

 _"The connection between them was still there—that was clear from the first moment I saw them together."_ Iris had written. "The air was electric."

"Was that what that was," Felicity muttered, although she could feel the crackle now, thinking about their confrontation at the pool.

 _"I don't know if she can forgive me,"_ Oliver had said. " _I don't know if I have the right to ask her to. But she has always believed in me, even when no one else did. She's always seen the best in me, and that has made me a better person."_

"You're welcome," said Felicity. "What's my prize?" But she immediately felt guilty. Yes, Oliver had made a mistake. But she was the one who had let her fear tell him to go. Had let it silence her belief in him, which he claimed had always been there. And it had been—she just hadn't been able to listen to it.

Was that what she was doing now?

She thought she knew the answer to that. And she didn't want to be afraid anymore. It was time to take a chance. Resolved, she stood up . . . and stumbled over the table leg.

Well, tomorrow, she amended, looking at the nearly empty bottle of wine and rubbing eyes blurry from reading. Tomorrow she would go talk to him.

* * *

Oliver sat in his office. It was only 9 am but he had been behind his desk for hours, coming in early after an almost sleepless night. He had been drafting the same email for the last hour, unable to concentrate despite the extra cup of coffee his assistant had brought him. He was trying not to think about how his last-ditch effort had failed.

But did it have to be the last ditch, he thought wildly. Maybe he could go to her condo—say something—at least see her face and know it was over. It had to be better than this feeling, and he had nothing to lose at this point. The thought drove him from his chair just as the buzzer sounded on his phone. "Mr. Queen? You have a visitor."

Oliver put his finger on the buzzer to respond that he was going out, and he had no appointments—but then he caught a glimpse of blonde hair through the glass walls and his heart stopped. _Felicity_.

"Send her in," he said, voice rough. He pushed the button on his desk to fog the glass panels.

* * *

Felicity steeled herself as she entered of Oliver's office. It was still early but it looked as if he hadn't gotten much more sleep than she had. His eyes were a bit bloodshot, and she noticed a small drop of coffee on the front of his shirt. "Felicity," he said simply, breathing it out like a prayer. "Hey." He rounded the desk, but paused just in front of it.

"I finally read your article," she said softly, taking a step toward him. _Well, all the articles._ "You've become quite the media star."

"I told you, I'm not letting anyone clean up my messes anymore," he said, leaning back against the desk. "That includes our PR person, much to her chagrin when I wouldn't let her be present at the interviews." He lowered his head. "Although I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you didn't believe I meant it."

"I wanted to," she said simply.

"I know it takes more than words," he replied. "Or even public words . . . it was just the only way I could think of to show you, since you didn't want to see me or speak to me. I understand that," he said hastily, as she opened her mouth. "I just had to do something that might be enough for you to give me a chance."

The look in his eyes was so loving and sincere, it almost took Felicity's breath away. And she wasn't really one to lose her breath. He did still love her. And she was going to let him—and love him right back. A rush of hope and excitement—and yes, confidence—filled her. She took a step forward.

"So, I noticed a few things left out of that article," Felicity began. "That 'true story.'"

* * *

Oh no, Oliver had been afraid of this. "Felicity, I—" he began, but she put up a hand to cut him off.

"I mean, the hillside karaoke is one of my favorite parts," she said, and he swore he saw a glint in her eye that made him want to clap his hands. If she were teasing him . . . that meant . . .

"It was pretty good," he agreed. "But I didn't want to embarrass Laurel too much. Or me," he admitted, under her quizzical gaze. He leaned back on the desk and crossed his arms. "What else did I leave out?"

"Well," she said thoughtfully, tapping a finger to her cheek and gazing skyward. "Now that I think about it, it was a fact you didn't know."

He was certain he saw the glint now. "Are you planning to enlighten me?"

"Well," she said, suddenly serious, "the whole truth is, I never stopped loving you, either."

Oliver was speechless.

"People leaving," she swallowed visibly before bravely meeting his eyes, "it isn't something easy for me to get over. Yes, I told you to go, but you weren't supposed to," she waved her hands, "you know, _go_. You were supposed to fight back."

Oliver instinctively started to reach out to her, but almost instantly dropped his arms back to his sides. This was on her terms, not his, and she had to decide—but even as he finished reminding himself of that, he saw her step forward. He didn't move, didn't even breathe as she reached out and grabbed his right hand in both of his.

"If I had been thinking straight when we had that fight, maybe I would have realized that," he said, and he'd never meant anything more. "I'm so sorry, Felicity. It's not enough—but I can tell you I won't make that mistake again."

"It's not all your fault," she said softly, tracing her thumb over his skin and looking into his eyes. "I saw you turning away from me and I got so scared. Instead of trying to pull you back, I pushed you away. I can tell you I won't make that mistake again." She smiled. "Seriously, just try to run from me this time. I dare you."

Oliver's heart skipped a beat at her words, and his hand twisted to grasp hers more tightly. He had thought he was exercising restraint before, but now that he was touching her, he couldn't stop thinking about how she was just a tug away from being in his arms.

He settled for placing his other hand over hers, strengthening their clasp. "Does that mean you'll have dinner with me tonight?"

Her face broke into the sunny smile he loved more than anything, eyes bright behind her glasses. "Yes," she said, squeezing his hands. "Yes, Oliver Queen, I will have dinner with you."

He wasn't sure he could smile any wider. "Felicity. Are you sure?"

"Not in the least, but I'll risk it," said Felicity, with a toss of her ponytail. "Will you?"

"You bet."

Now, finally, he opened his arms, and she flung herself into them. He held her tight and felt the joy of second chances.

* * *

 _That's it! Hope you enjoyed; thanks to everyone who read and reviewed. :)_


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